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Contrary to popular imaginings, angels are nothing like birds - save for a few notable similarities. They share wings and feathers, the ability to fly, and of course nesting, but that’s about where it ends. But, like the wings of an angel aren’t quite the same as the wings of a bird and their flight is more or less instantaneous, their nesting habits are fairly different, as well. For one thing, angels don’t always nest in pairs, sometimes it’s groupings of three to five, but never more than six. For another, angels don’t produce their own young, even if the nest is the typical precursor for a baby acquisition. And, acquisition is an accurate word for it, as newborn angels aren’t the result of mating, no matter how a pair or more of angels would try to make it so. Instead, newborn angels are made of the same firmament as the rest of the universe, tiny, naked, and blind with downy wings and the ability to scream shrill enough to actually make ears bleed. In The Before The Beginning, newborns were delivered, at arm's length and by the scruff of the neck by the archangel Gabriel to any prospective parents. Crowley had seen this happen once or twice, and it was always a delight to see the stuff messenger of God hold a baby like it was liable to explode, ramble off congratulations, and zip out of blast radius. That was back before everything, though, when they were all relatively new and innocent and the idea of baby anything was awe-inspiring. That was before everything went to Hell. Or, before some of them went to Hell, rather.
As far as Crowley understood it, angels didn’t really build nests and care for babies anymore. That had all stopped shortly before Adam had been created. And there were never any demon babies. Small blessings.
So, adding “not caring for any young” to the list, it’s clearer that angels, and by extension, demons, are not birds. However, if they were birds, Crowley would be a penguin, even if they barely qualify as birds, in his opinion. They have the feathers and the beaks and the egg-laying parts down, but they’re sort of shit at the rest of it. They don’t fly, they live where it’s always freezing tits, and they can’t even figure out how to make nests out of soft things - they use cold, egg-killing rocks of all things. And what’s worse is that they obsess about the kinds of rocks they pick out to start with. It has to be perfect: perfectly smooth and round, maybe a bit oblong or with flecks of gold in it. It should be rare, something unique that shows both considerations for the individual as well as intent. It can’t really be that unique, though. It’s a rock. Dime a dozen, rocks. It’s not as if it were, say, the teachings of Marcion of Sinope in their first drafts with little bumblebees drawn in the corners and all of his atrocious spelling errors intact. That's way better than a pretty rock. A penguin could never come up with something that clever or unique. Penguins can’t even read.
But if the metaphor is allowed to stand, Crowley would be a penguin. A particularly stupid penguin dropping pebbles at the feet of another, extremely unobservant penguin. Or maybe Aziraphale is more of a swan: beautiful to look at and fiercely territorial. And Crowley might not know that much about birds, but he’s pretty sure a penguin and a swan couldn’t make it work. Where would they live? The arctic is much too cold for a swan and a penguin would hate central London.
Crowley skips a stone across the pond, frightening a duck in the process. The duck squawks and flaps it’s wings in the avian equivalent of a stiff middle finger, but Crowley is too focused on his own moping to care. It’s been six months since Nopemageddon and the world’s kept spinning like nothing’s happened. Which is accurate, nothing actually happened. That is, for everyone but a handful of people who took part in it. For Crowley and Aziraphale, this has meant freedom, true freedom, to do whatever they pleased (and pleased they certainly have been). However, freedom has its downsides. A not-man cannot live on dainty tarts and champagne brunches alone. They can go anywhere and do anything, but after a few months - well. Crowley isn’t bored, per se, and he certainly isn’t tired of Aziraphale, but now that nothing is holding either of them back or trying to kill them, it’s become painfully obvious that something is… off.
It’s nothing Crowley can put a name to, but it’s the restrictive, claustrophobic feeling of molt or shedding or the hellish combination of both. It’s forced him to look at his relationship with Aziraphale in a way he’d never thought he would, not if they ever got the chance to really just be . All he’s ever wanted was to be with his angel, doing anything or nothing, but now that he has just that - something is wrong. It’s like looking at the world through a glass of water; it’s all there, as it should be until you look just a little over the edge and notice it’s all slightly wonky. It almost feels like something is missing, and the longer it’s absent, the more awful the realization that maybe they’re not suited to this nameless thing they’re caught in becomes.
Take right now, for instance. They’re supposed to be enjoying themselves but they’re just doing the same thing they’ve always done for as long as they’ve been doing anything - watching waterfowl float on. They only difference now is that no one is asking for favors and talking about work. They’re not even talking right now. Aziraphale is watching people mill about. Diplomats trade stories about which heads of state spit when they talking, lovers lose themselves in the orbits of each other, and children kick a ball. And Crowley, as always, is watching Aziraphale.
“Nice evening,” Aziraphale says.
“Yup,” says Crowley. He’s rolling back on the balls of his feet, hands in the barely-there pockets of his jeans.
“You’re coming back to the shop tonight?”
“Might as well.” What else is he going to do? He’s already terrified his plants today. Maybe he could put tacks under the tires of every fourth car he sees on the way home? But that’s so… meh.
They get to the shop just as the last violet shades of twilight fade from the night sky, leaving only the vague darkness of cloudy space, like cigarette smoke on obsidian. With a snap of fingers, the lights come on and Vivaldi plays from the gramophone in the back. That’s normal. What isn’t normal is that the familiar layer of dust on every surface is gone and the floors reflect the light up at them instead of absorbing it all like a black hole made of wood.
“You scrubbed the floors?” Crowley asks.
Aziraphale gives a tight nod, removing his coat and hanging it on a coat tree. Since when did he get a coat tree?
“Why?”
“There were still sigils on the floor. I figured I wouldn’t much be needing them anymore, and, well, I got started and couldn’t just leave it half done,” Aziraphale says.
“So you dusted.”
“It was older than some of the patrons. It was about time.”
Crowley hums, surveying the room. Without the hazy gray coating everything it’s easier to tell where the wood of the shelves has been lightened by time and age. Aziraphale may keep the books themselves pristine but the furniture is less valuable. “Brighter in here. Not so -” he flaps his hand through the air.
“It is, “ Aziraphale says, “though it does make the clutter more pronounced.”
“Not like there’s anyone around to see it.” They meander back to the backroom, where Spring grows louder. They settle in and crack open a bottle of scotch that might actually get drunk instead of drunk, un-drunk, and then re-drunk again. Who knows, though. The night is still young.
Four days. That’s the longest they’ve been apart since the Notpocalypse. Crowley has slept through most of it, so it hasn’t been a problem for him, but Aziraphale hasn’t been around to check on him. In their history, four days of silence is nothing, might as well be four minutes, but due to recent events… well, they just haven’t been apart for that long. Crowley doesn’t let himself worry about it as he makes his way back to the bookshop. He doesn’t because it’s alright. Aziraphale probably just got caught up in a book or twelve again.
But Aziraphale isn’t ensconced in a book. At least not when Crowley gets there.
“Angel?” He calls out, his voice echoing through the space like it hasn’t in nearly 200 years. There is a surprising lack of stuff around, no books piled up on the floor, no stray papers on tables, no luggage in the corners of the room, just polished floors and a new green rug.
And Aziraphale, popping out from behind a shelf. “Oh. I wasn’t expecting to see you yet, dear.”
“You expected me to stay away for four days? Or more?”
“Four days!” He gasps, looking down at the book in his hands as if it knew how much time had passed and just forgot to mention anything because its mind was on other things. “It’s really been four days.”
“What’ve you been doing?” Crowley rounds the shelf, frozen in his tracks as he registers what Aziraphale is wearing. The waistcoat and button-down are gone, as is the bowtie and overcoat. In their place is a cable knit sweater. A sweater! And a vest “What the Heaven are you wearing?”
Aziraphale's lips curl into a tight little frown. “You don’t like it?” He fiddles with the edge of his snug sweater, picking at lint that isn’t there.
“I didn’t say that. But where’s the bowtie and the - the everything?”
“Well, it has been quite a while since I bought something new. I seem to recall you were the one who complained about it.”
“Since when do you care what I say?”
“I care!”
“Not when it’s about your clothes, you don’t. I’ve been trying to get you out of that blessed waistcoat for decades.”
“And you’re one to judge?” There’s a distinct condescending hum in Aziraphale’s voice and a particularly challenging bounce to his eyebrow.
“Wa’s that supposed to mean?”
“Snakeskin boots, dear? That’s a little on the nose, even for you. Or the shoestring you’re calling a scarf. But if you’ve been angling to get me to change for so long why be shocked when I actually do it, hm?”
Crowley sputters his way through several syllables before settling on something somewhat coherent. “You just - ‘s not like I meant it.”
Aziraphale eyes him in that expresses just a hair too much of Aziraphale’s huffy dramatics to truly be flat. “Not everything is about you,” he says.
Crowley scoffs. Maybe it isn’t but Aziraphale is nothing if not a creature of habit. He’s stayed mostly in Britain for 1000 years, had the bookshop for 200, and the wardrobe for 80. He finds things and hangs onto them until he can’t anymore. Or at least, he used to. Preening. That’s what he’s doing. That’s got to be it.
But why would he be preening now of all times?
“Regardless, what was it you needed?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley doesn’t even remember, his brain temporarily fried by the presence of cream-colored wool, so he falls back on the usual standby: “lunch?”
Crowley doesn’t really live in Mayfield. Or, he didn’t until recently. The flat was more of a stopping point than a home. Before Amegeddidn't, Crowley spent more of his time making trouble or thinking of ways to make trouble. He still does, to an extent, just with less direction and vaguely conceivable malice. These days it’s easy - all it takes is a tweet expressing a mild opinion to get dozens of people in a tizzy. They’ll call strangers all kinds of names and expose themselves as all manner of bitter and hateful. But that can be done in bed and often times it is. But when it is, it just makes him more aware of how uncomforting his home actually is. The bed is nice, the art is nice, the plants know better than to be anything but excellent, but it’s not exactly cozy.
It’s functional. It’s sleek. It’s simplistic.
It’s a concrete box.
And it’s never been more of a concrete box than it is now. Now that he’s got no direction. It wasn’t really like he had much of a direction before, mind. It was just “be Evil” which… well, he managed alright. But now there is no order. Whatever he does or doesn’t do is completely up to him in a way it’s never truly been before. And isn’t that a kick in the ass? So-called Father of Freewill gets a taste of it himself and now it's too much. In his darker moments, it's a refrain of “what now? Where do we go? What do we do? What’s my purpose?”
Maybe that’s how Eve felt after getting tossed out of Eden? Well, at least it’s poetic, then.
The difference, though, is about 6000 years worth of human development means that he’s got everything at his fingertips, rather than nothing but sand and lions and babies. That’s a plus, at least. The drawback is the lack of purpose. At least Eve got to become humanity’s mum. What’s he got?
He’s restless. He’s restless and frustrated and he’s going to start shedding feathers if he doesn’t do something about the jittery tight feeling that’s manifesting under his skin.
He’s on his way to the bookshop before he’s aware of it, walking in through the front door, and watching some man in an ugly jacket agree to contact Aziraphale by the end of the week before leaving in absolutely no rush whatsoever. He smiles curtly at Crowley as he walks out, failing miserably at seeming causal.
The small smile on Aziraphale’s lips falters a bit as he notices Crowley and even though it’s replaced with another, different kind of smile, it’s the wobble that sticks in Crowley’s mind.
“New friend?” He asks.
“Oh, no. Garett is just - no. Just - uh, just some business to take care of. No need to worry about it -” which damn near guarantees that Crowley’s going to at least think about it. “Anyway, how are you?”
Crowley shoves his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, where there’s much more room for some inconceivable reason. “How’d you feel about getting out of the city?” Aziraphale’s back is to him, which only marginally helps him remain composed.
“How far out of the city?”
“Haven’t been to Athens in a couple decades? Or Morocco?”
“That’s rather far.”
“Not by air.”
Aziraphale has a stack of 18th-century medical dictionaries in his arms and a contemplative frown on his face as he makes his way through the shelves. “I don’t like flying,” he says, “cabin pressure. Makes my ears pop.”
“So we don’t take a plane.”
“You can’t be suggesting we risk being seen.”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “Humans don’t notice anything. ‘Sides, it’s not like they haven’t seen us before.”
“Yes, but now they have cameras. And drones. And it’s over an ocean anyway -”
“The channel isn’t really that much of an ocean.”
“- and I really haven’t flown in at least a century. I could pull something.”
“Edinburgh, then. That’s closer.”
Aziraphale stares down at a copy of a 13th-century leechbook like it’s said something rude. Not a great sign, but Aziraphale tends to look pensive when he weighs his choices. “I have to look after the shop.”
“No, you don’t. You can not sell books somewhere else just as well as you can when you’re here.”
“Maybe I want to sell books,” Aziraphale says.
“Since when?”
“Since recently. I do have an awful lot that are just sort of - they’re not my favorites. I could part with them.”
Crowley can only stand there with his mouth hung slightly open. “You what?”
“There are a lot of books. I can’t keep them around forever.”
There are many things Crowley wants to say to that. Among them, things like “yes, you can, you’re an angel,” “we both know this is more a private library than anything,” and “who the Hell are you and what have you done with my Aziraphale”. What he settles on, however, is: “but you - gkk.”
“Perhaps at a later date, love. I’ve got too much to attend to this week.”
Crowley is too taken aback by Aziraphale’s sudden ideas about selling off books to even mention traveling again for the rest of the evening. Instead, he lays of Aziraphale’s couch, a glass of scotch on his stomach, wondering if Aziraphale is feeling the empty well in his chest, too.
Aziraphale has always been quick to denial. It’s not like Crowley didn’t understand why, it’s just that he hoped, perhaps a little naively, that Aziraphale would get past it now. He’s had no such luck. It is, however, a new variety of denial. Variety, they say is the spice of life. Unfortunately, this variety is coriander and tastes like soapy film on his tongue.
Crowley is used to being the object of denial, the not-friend Aziraphale certainly didn’t have any Arrangement with and definitely wasn’t fraternizing with. It hurt, of course, but it was born of very real fear. Crowley is not used to being the target of denial, however. He’s not used to Aziraphale’s dithering excuses for why he can’t head out, for why he hadn’t been at the bookshop, for what was going on at all.
The pit in his chest has begun to expand, like a black hole, sucking the light, happy feelings he’s been reveling in since The Not End and stretching and pulling at them until they become painful misshapen shadows. Aziraphale’s smile, as warm and welcoming as a Mexican beach physically hurts to think about. Not in the soppy, yearning way like it used to, either. This hurts like losing. Perhaps pining is better. Whichever idiot said it was better to have loved and lost didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
Crowley is drunk. He’s been drinking since be got to the bookshop to find no Aziraphale and books on display. It looks like a blessed respectable business and not a private-library-slash-excuse -to-stay-in-Soho that it is. So it’s time to face facts: Aziraphale is leaving. He’s scrubbed all visible traces of angelic influence from the place, he’s cleaned it and cleared out the clutter, he's preening like a damn peacock, and now he’s avoided Crowley and disappearing. So Crowley is going to drink all his liquor and mope. It’s petty and sloppy and maybe a little desperate, but at least it’s on-brand.
The bookshop bell rings, echoing in the cleared out space. Crowley doesn’t call out, he just waits for Aziraphale to stumble upon him, maybe be a bit startled and start scolding him.
That isn’t what happens. Aziraphale’s footsteps echo as he comes to the backroom. He hovers in the doorway after flicking on the light. Neither of them speaks for a moment, though they make eye contact.
“Well?” Crowley finally says with a flourish of the wrist.
“Well?” Aziraphale echoes.
Crowley snorts, bitter and humorless. “Not going to say anything?"
“What do you want me to say, Crowley?” Passive. Cold. Asshole.
Crowley hauls himself into a sitting position, brandy threatening to spill out of the decanter. “I don’t know, Aziraphale, something. Anything.”
“You parked on the wrong side of the street,” is what he says.
“Bah!”
“Why are you parked on the wrong side of the street?” He asks as if the act had been some egregious error and he’s furious but trying not to show it.
“Why’d you clean out the bookshop?”
“I already told you when I did it.”
“You weren’t here yesterday or today. Been here hours waiting but you just - poof,” Crowley’s talking with his hands, getting brandy on the couch and himself, but it’s not like it matters. Screw the couch. And his stupid tight jeans. And everything else.
“I had business to attend to,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sure I told you.”
“You never said for two days. How was I ‘spose’ to know? You never tell me where you’re going anyway.”
“As if that’s ever stopped you before.”
“Well!” Crowley flaps his arms out uselessly. “I don’t know now! And you won’t tell me, anyways. It’s don’t worry about it, dear , and I’ll fill you in later , and some other non-answer because I just don’t feel like telling you, Crowley .” He doesn’t mean for his voice to wind up in a growl, but it happens anyway.
“You don’t have to be rude,” Aziraphale says.
“And you don’t have to be a secretive bastard!”
“Crowley!”
“Aziraphale!”
If Aziraphale had his wings manifested, they’d be puffed up, arching in the doorway. They aren’t though. The only thing puffed up about Aziraphale are his cheeks. “I’m not going to talk to you about this if you’re going to act like a drunken child.”
“You don’t talk to me anyways, so what’s the point?”
“Fine. Sober up or sleep it off, but I’m not doing this right now.”
Crowley sticks out his tongue and hisses. Petty, petulant, and sloppy.
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “God help me,” he mutters as he walks back into the shop, leaving the light on.
Crowley hisses at his brandy and sulks in the silence until dawn. The parking ticket on his windshield winds up in the gutter.
Crowley has always been a tiny bit vain. And that’s permissible because who doesn’t want to look good? Crowley certainly does. And it’s not like it hurts anyone, anyway. All-in-all, the way he looks is mostly up to him, his hair and shape and clothes changeable with a thought. The only things he doesn’t have control over are his eyes and his wings. And the wings are usually kept in impeccable condition. Lately, though, they’ve been awful.
Well, not awful. Less good than usual. His feathers aren’t falling out or breaking off, just ruffled and sensitive and specks of down are falling out. It’s not supposed to be time to molt, but nothing he’s doing can soothe the irritation and it’s starting to drive him mad.
He’d never been all that observant of the social aspects of Heaven. He’d been too busy, and by the time he’d started to pay attention, it was all different. No one was building nests anymore and there were… stirrings. Whispers. Angry shushes of whispers. Questions were asked. Angels grew suspicious. Lucifer gathered and army. Anyone acting suspicious was cast out, no trial, no discussion, just The Fall.
Had Crowley been given a different job, like mountain building or mammal design he might’ve been more aware of the nesting rituals of angels. Rituals that included things like the presentation of gifts, preening, scouting of nesting territory, and mutual grooming. He might’ve been able to understand that while angels tended to have similar patterns and methods of courtship and nesting, they weren’t always the same. Sometimes nesting angels were on the same page and a gift would be answered with another gift, the intent perfectly clear. Other times angels scouted nesting territory together. Of course, that didn’t always happen and a gift-giving could be answered with a grooming or preening answered with scouting. Usually, that took a bit longer for both angels to understand. Had Crowley known this, he might’ve also understood that nesting angels often dropped down, towards the end of their courtship, usually for stuffing into the nest to make a soft, warm environment for the baby angels that would soon follow. He might’ve also known that the longer a pair (or more) goes without mutual grooming in this state, the more irritable they both become.
He didn’t, though. Because he was much more interested in work and nebulae were much more fun than watching angels stare at each other with gooey expressions.
As it is, Crowley is currently trailing black down through his flat, pacing the floor. He can’t physically stand keeping his wings out of the earthly plane. He can’t reach where he needs to be touched the most and the tension and itching in his skin and down his wings is making him twitch. All he wants is for the itching to stop but that’s just not happening. He could call Aziraphale, or show up at the shop again, but there’s no guarantee Aziraphale is going to be there or even that he wants to talk to him right now. All because Crowley got drunk on his couch and refused to talk about it, like a child.
Aziraphale had tried to talk about it, but Crowley wasn’t going to let him get started. He knows that whatever’s going on, whatever Aziraphale is planning, he’d rather not be let down easy. Not again. Not after everything. He’d rather they get into another big, stupid fight so he can sleep through the loneliness than know that there could be hope to fix it, someday, just not right then. Just let Crowley sleep for a few decades and when he wakes Aziraphale will have gotten it out of his system. Hopefully. Of course, no matter how hard he’d tried to piss Aziraphale off enough to force his hand, it didn’t work.
As it turns out, Crowley doesn’t have to call. Aziraphale knocks on the door, repeatedly, before unlocking it himself and huffing his way inside.
“Honestly, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs, “if you’re not asleep - “ he cuts himself off, footsteps silent before his shoes can hit the kitchen tile. “Crowley, your wings!”
Crowley is sitting in the kitchen at the breakfast bar, wings twitching behind him while he tries to merge minds with the granite under his forehead. He grunts in response.
“Oh, darling,” Azriaphale’s voice is soft as he approaches. “You look awful.” He tips Crowley’s face upwards to look him in the eyes. His palms are warm.
“Thanks. Good to see you, too,” Crowley grumbles. He winces as one of his wings brushes against Aziraphale’s wool coat.
“How long has this been going on?” He asks in the tone of a mother catching her child tracking muddy shoe prints through the house.
“Eh,” Crowley says. They’ve been bugging him from going on a week but he’s only been dropping feathers for a few days. “Not long.”
Aziraphale brushes the backs of his fingers against the arch of Crowley’s wing, knocking loose a bit of fluff. Crowley shudders.
Aziraphale rubs his thumb up the bony ridge of Crowley’s wing, frowning as he does. “Come,” he says, “let’s sit. We’ll get you taken care of.” He lets his hand fall, brushing down Crowley’s arm until he can get ahold of his wrist and drag him back into the front room. Aziraphale sits on the couch, guiding Crowley to the floor between his spread legs.
“You should’ve told me this was happening,” Aziraphale says, shuffling behind and rusting fabric.
“Yes, well,” Crowley mutters. He could make some comment about that going the other way as well, but he’s not interested in fighting at the moment. Or listening to Aziraphale try to explain why he’s considering leaving. He doesn't have it in him right now.
“Off,” Aziraphale says, tugging the sleeve of Crowley’s jacket. Crowley wiggles into a more comfortable position and lets the fabric disintegrate back into shadow. Aziraphale starts by pressing his thumbs into the joints between Crowley’s shoulder blades and his wings. Crowley cries out, wings fluttering and nearly smacking Aziraphale in the face.
“Have you lost anything substantial, or just fluff?”
“Just fluff,” Crowly half-groans as fingertips dig into his muscles.
Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, working his warm hands up and down Crowley’s back before finally dipping into his wings. Crowley whines, sagging into the touch as steady fingers card through his feathers.
Despite what certain sub-genres of erotica might have you believe, there is nothing inherently sexual about wing grooming between angels, fallen or otherwise. It’s no more sexual than a back massage, which is to say that it can be, given the right circumstances. It is very relaxing, and potentially good foreplay between lovers, but it’s not a precursor to sex in this case. This is because, no matter how nice it feels, Crowley is far too irritable to even consider it. At least right now.
Aziraphale doesn’t speak as he moves his hands through Crowley’s feathers. He does hum, however. It’s a soft tune that Crowley recognizes but couldn't name, even if he tried. It’s old, probably, reminding him of the glittery water of the Nile, the reeds that rustled at the slightest breeze, and the horribly indulgent dinner parties Cleopatra used to hold. He’s fairly certain he’d never seen that much honey before or since. Those parties were among the first times he'd ever seen Aziraphale in a food coma.
Between the memory and the gentle strokes of Aziraphale’s hands, Crowley is lulled into a trance better than any drug or drink he’s ever tried.
“Better?” Aziraphale finally asks, drawing Crowley out of his stupor.
“Much,” he mumbles.
Crowley can feel the smug satisfaction rolling off Azirapahle without even looking at him. He doesn’t remove his hands from Crowley’s wings, either, he just keeps stroking the ridges of bone and rubbing the spines of his shorter feathers. It tickles, a little.
“Has this happened before?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley’s eyes flutter shut as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, angling Aziraphale where he wants him. “Nuh-uh.”
Aziraphale’s nails scrape against the skin of his back. Crowley jerks and nearly hits him with a wing again. “It’s quite a bit of down,” he says. Crowley doesn’t bother to respond.
“I doubt they’ll be worth keeping for splints. I could get rid of them for you -”
Crowley’s hand shoots back lightening quick, clutching Aziraphale’s wrist. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t - “ Crowley hesitates. He’s - he’s damn near shaking, everything in him on high alert, nerves tingling and wings flaring out in a threatening arch. There are no coherent thoughts running through his mind, just a sudden, fearsome dread and the snarling need to - to protect - the fluff? “You can’t,” he snarls.
Aziraphale pries Crowley’s fingers off his wrist. “Very well. I won’t touch them.”
The tension in Crowley’s body drops instantly, the easy relaxation that usually follows a good grooming taking over once again.
“I just suppose,” Aziraphale starts. The tension in Crowley’s body ratchets back up like a taut rubber band. “I just supposed it seems rather silly to keep a hold of all of this. What are you planning on doing with it?”
“I don’t know!” Crowley snaps. “I’ll make a quilt or something.”
Aziraphale chuckles. “A quilt? When was the last time you sewed anything?”
As far as Crowley can remember, that would be the 12th century, when he was living in Ireland. That was when the easiest social activity a well-off lady could have without raising suspicion was to sit with other ladies and sew, but as far as social activities go, it’s still rather low on the list. Also, he wasn't very good at it.
“Though, it would be quite soft, don’t you think? Perhaps the softest thing on the planet,” Aziraphale says.
“Damn right, it would,” Crowley says.
“Likely warm, too.”
“Of course.”
“Ideal for a chilly winter night by the sea, don’t you think?”
Crowley hums. He hadn’t considered it, but it could be marvelous. He’s certainly proud of how nice his wings are, and he should be for how long it takes him to get them as shiny as they are. Of course, his down would be soft and warm. Ideal for burrowing in when it’s cold, especially on the coasts.
“It wouldn't be big enough for you or me, though,” Aziraphale says. There’s a distinct air to his voice, the one he’s used before to bait Crowley into all manner of things from lunch dates to favors to the good pillow on that awful couch he keeps in the bookshop.
Crowley expects to say something indulgent like he always does. He expects that whatever falls from his lips is going to be a promise, probably of something nicer for his angel and a vaguely put-upon sight that they both know is all an act. That’s not what happens, however.
Instead, he says, without thinking: “‘course not. It’s not for either of us. We’ve got full wings already.”
“Oh? Who for, then?”
Crowley freezes, trying and failing to process what’s come out of his mouth and the overly casual tone Aziraphale has responded with. It’s all just, dial-up internet screeching up there.
“I - what?”
Aziraphale hums. “I was wondering how long it was going to take you.”
“How long it - what? What was I supposed to be figuring out?” Crowley’s chest does a funny little tumble-clench, and though he doesn’t need to breathe he’s very aware that he hasn’t been for a while.
“Oh,” Aziraphale says.
“Oh? What oh? Use words.” Crowley twists around, craning his neck to look backward. Aziraphale’s sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, showing off far more skin than he’s causally had on display in centuries. A few bits of black fluff stick to his sweater.
“I had thought that you’d finally realized what we’ve been doing. I’d supposed you’d forgotten about the usual rituals involved in nesting.”
“Nesting? No. No, angel, demons don’t nest.”
“Perhaps, but you certainly have been.”
“Since when?”
“Oh, I’d wager the last six hundred years at least, though it’s only been recently that you’ve escalated, now that we’ve stopped pretending we’re not a pair.”
600 years? No. Definitely no. He’s only been aware he’s actually been in love with Aziraphale for 200 since he opened the bookshop. He can’t have been - besides it’s not like he knows what the process is, anyway. He couldn’t’ve been, not consciously, at least.
“You mean to tell me that I’ve been courting you for half a millennia, making a fool of myself, and you just forgot to say anything?”
“I thought you knew!” Aziraphale says. “What else were your little miracles if not very clear intent?”
Well, he’s got Crowley there. At first, it was just what Crowley wanted to do. Why not make the angel smile with little flash here and there? Sold out shows, recovered manuscripts? That's easy. He’s so lovely when he smiles, anyway. And, it would be a shame to see that pretty face discorporated, so really, saving him was an entirely selfish act. The realization that it was all to see the pretty angel not just smile, but smile at him came later. So maybe - maybe that’s accurate then.
“So you knew and you stuck around anyway. Despite us ‘not being friends’?” He makes the damn air quotes and everything.
Aziraphale rolls his eyes and pouts. Crowley can’t keep the smile off his face. His angel is just too blessed cute.
“Well, I didn’t know until the 1940s, “ he huffs, “not for certain, at any rate. And we were always friends, you know that.”
“And then afterward? Were you ever going to say anything?”
“I was under the impression that’s what I was doing just now.”
Crowley rolls his eyes, lifting himself up to kiss Aziraphale on the lips. “You’re ridiculous,” he says.
“I’m ridiculous?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale scoffs. “What’s ridiculous is you wanting to move us to Athens.”
“I said nothing about moving to Athens. It was just a holiday. ‘Sides, I won’t take you from your shop.”
Aziraphale hums, soothing his hands down Crowley’s shoulders and chest. “It’s just a building,” he says.
Crowley tries to spin around but Aziraphale’s hands on his chest keep him pinned to the couch.
“I mean it, Crowley,” he says, “It’s only a building. The books I can keep but there’s little need for the shop now.”
“But - but where would you live?”
“My darling boy,” Aziraphale nearly purs, stroking Crowley’s cheek with his knuckles, “I thought that would be obvious.”
“This is a box.”
Aziraphale coos. “I think you should see where Garett has been taking me these past few weeks.”
“Who the Heaven is Garett?”
His nails drag across the curve of Crowley’s jaw, back and around into the short hair at the base of his neck. “He’s my realtor,” Aziraphale says.
Crowley goes lax, head falling back against Aziraphale’s knees. “O-okay.”
Aziraphale continues petting, steadily reducing Crowley to a puddle of limbs. He’s considering abandoning said limbs and coiling himself into Aziraphale’s lap when he stops petting. Crowley nearly whines before he catches the flutter of feathers behind him. They switch places without a word and Crowley digs into the warm, velvety soft feathers at Aziraphale’s back. He doesn’t stop until long after the piles of down on the floor double, pearlescent feathers mingling and sparkling together in the low light.
Aziraphale stays the night.
The cottage Aziraphale had been scouting is close to the coast, tucked away in a little village the summons words like simplicity and quiet to the forefront of the mind. And it is simple and quiet, save for the thunderstorms that shake the earth and rattle teacups until Aziraphale glares them back into stillness. The beach is close enough that more often than not Crowley finds himself in the sand, soaking in as much sun as the intermittent cloud coverage will allow.
It had only taken one visit for Crowley to decide it would be a good place to settle, and after the paperwork was properly fabricated, their things migrated and mingled with little direction from their owners. The wardrobe was populated with Aziraphale’s clothes within the first week, and Crowley’s art made it into the den by the second. The books were slower about their move, prone to showing up wherever they pleased rather than the library that had been specifically added for their storage. Aziraphale believed it was because they were used to disorganization. Crowley decided, after the third time he tripped over a stack of newly appeared books, that they were either lazy or malicious, but possibly both.
By the spring, they’d moved in fully. To anyone with any sense of fashion or style, it is tacky as anything. The den holds an overstuffed couch, a fainting couch, and a garish throne, as well as a very suggestive statue and a copy of the Mona Lisa any historian, would sell their soul for. The library is floor to ceiling bookshelves, each book organized by a system known only to Aziraphale and the books themselves. The bedroom is the worst of it, resembling something like the aftermath of a fabric war with the survivors - black silk, colorful brocade, and the odd flannel - living an uneasy truce. The kitchen is the only room without any visible offense, but only because its sins are hidden away in cabinets.
It’s a hodge-podge of things that make little sense, some flashy and other plain, most useful and some just for sentiment. It’s functional but strange, like a magpie’s nest. It’s perfect, really.
Only one room remains bare. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale speak of it, nor do they make a move to fill it with anything beyond what’s possibly the world’s softest and rarest quilt. They’re not fools; they know it’s fruitless to even consider, or to entertain considering the thought at all, but instinct demands what instinct demands. Best not to fight it.
There's a sweet, early summer rain on the first night Crowley can finally relax in twelve years. They’re in bed, Crowley with his head in Aziraphale’s lap and a web of yarn spun between his fingers while Aziraphale frowns at the lopsided scarf on his knitting needles.
“How do you think Adam is doing?” Crowley asks, apropos of nothing.
“Fine, I’d suppose,” Aziraphale says. “I’d imagine we’d know if he wasn’t.”
“Eh. Let’s hope.” He’s not actually worried about it. The Youngs are fine people and Adam is a good kid. And, it’s not exactly as if the legions of Heaven and Hell would dare bother him at this point.
There’s a beat of silence and then: “you know what I’ve been wondering? How did that all come to be?” Aziraphale asks. “I mean the actual - “he waves the needle not currently holding any yarn in a vague circle.
“Conception,” Crowley offers.
“Yes. That.”
“I would assume the usual way,” Crowley says.
“But can you honestly imagine Lucifer -”
“I’d rather not, thanks.”
“No, but Crowley, he wasn’t exactly known for his affections for humans. Or anything for that matter.”
“Affection isn't exactly a prerequisite.”
“Angels can’t even have children,” Aziraphale says. “He might’ve been Satan, but he was still the same stock as the rest of us.”
Crowley mutters a few indecisive syllables. “I don’t know. Probably not worth worrying about.”
“I’m not worried, I just -” suddenly there’s a loud bang on the front door. If it weren’t for the fact that it’s only lightly raining, Crowley might’ve worried a tree branch had been torn off and slammed into it. Aziraphale moves to slide off the bed, but Crowley stops him.
“It’s raining. I’m not answering the door when it’s raining.”
“Someone could be stranded on the road.”
“That’s not my problem.”
Aziraphale scoffs. “They could need help.”
“There’s other houses down the road,” Crowley says. “Stay in bed. It’s late. Probably.”
Aziraphale frowns still half sliding off the bed. There isn’t another knock, however, so he gradually settles back in and picks the needles back up.
“See? It was probably nothing.”
No sooner are the words out of his mouth than is there a loud, earsplitting shriek and the simultaneous shattering of glass throughout the cottage.
“What the Hell?” Both Crowley and Aziraphale shout, springing out of bed. Crowley snaps the glass back into their panes. Aziraphale makes it to the door first.
“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale says, stopping short in the doorway. The world is a soft grey sort of darkness, the kind that accompanies early evening rain.
There’s no one outside, as far as Crowley can see. There’s only a trail of columbine leading up their front path and a basket on the doorstep.
There’s a twinge deep in Crowley’s soul, like touching your tongue to an exposed wire. Still, he doesn’t quite make the connection to what he’s seeing. Aziraphale stoops down to collect the basket, silent as he passes the folded note sticking out from the edge to Crowley. The rain spattering against the walkway sinks into their slippers and clothes. The basket remains ominously dry. “What’s it say?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley unfolds the note. “Mazel tov.” He swallows around the gathering dread in his throat. “It’s signed, G.”
Aziraphale narrows his eyes, hand hovering over the basket handle. “As in - as in Gabriel, maybe?”
“Somehow I highly doubt that.”
The basket makes a high whining, like a blender with too much ice in it, set to high. Neither of them say anything. Aziraphale finally tips the lid open, backing up on his heels so fast he knocks into Crowley’s legs.
“Well, I think we’ve got our answer. About the - thing.” Crowley says with a gulp. He peers down at the basket and the tiny, whimpering baby inside.
“No,” Aziraphale breaths. “That can’t be.” Even still, he’s leaning over, scooping the baby out of the makeshift cradle and rising back up to his feet. The baby starts to cry and Aziraphale tutts lightly, rocking slowly. The child is swaddled in yellow. There is no hospital band.
Crowley guides Aziraphale backward, and shuts the door on the rain.
Neither of them has any words for each other, and they can only stare, gaping as the child wiggles in Aziraphale’s arms. The dread that sprung up when they opened the door is quickly dissolving, like sugar in coffee. Crowley is drawn closer, right into the orbit of the tiny creature. Of course, Crowley is reminded of the night twelve years ago when he was commanded to deliver the antichrist and subsequently buggered it. This feels a lot different from that, though. Back then, there had been fear and anxiety, and the crushing realization that the final countdown had begun. Back then, life as they knew it was practically over. This, however, this is soft. There is still fear, but it’s overridden by a wonderment Crowley hasn't felt since the world was new and he’d seen Eve hold the first baby in her arms, still sweating and sobbing and full of joy. Cain had been a fairly calm baby, unlike his brothers and definitely unlike this baby. This baby is irritated.
Aziraphale frowns, shifting the baby in his arms. They cry out, and Crowley slides closer to cradle their head. Both angel and demon shush the child as Aziraphale peeks under the yellow blanket. He gasps, practically shoving the baby into Crowley’s arms.
“Aziraphale, what -”
“Look!” Aziraphale peels the blanket back and two tiny piebald wings unfurl themselves, stretching out between Crowley and Aziraphale.
“No.” It’s Crowley’s turn to have disbelief steal his breath. He laughs, unable to do much else as the baby’s tiny fist hits him in the chest. Aziraphale laughs too, fingers stroking the arch of a tiny wing. It’s… well, impossible doesn’t even begin to cover it. Of all the wonderful impossible things - averting the apocalypse, falling in love with an angel, not getting himself killed - this takes the cake.
“Looks like that quilt was a good idea after all,” Crowley says, watching the child in his arms yawn wide enough to put his snake self to shame.
Later, as they’re laying in bed, the baby resting on the quit between them, Aziraphale speaks again. “We’ll have to think of a name for them.”
Crowley hums. He hasn’t been able to stop touching their soft wings since Aziraphale took the blanket off. Black and white, a few iridescent blue here and there, like a disorganized magpie. Beautiful.
“I like Evelyn,” Aziraphale says. He’s hovering a lot closer than he usually would, jealous of the proximity. It’s a bit too cute to be irritating, as Aziraphale has never been as fond of children as Crowley is. Perhaps it’s different when they’re your own.
“Evelyn is nice,” Crowley says. “At least we won’t keep calling them the baby .”
So, Evelyn, it is, at least for now.
Angels, fallen or no, are not birds, no matter the similarities. They may nest and preen and groom each other’s wings, and they might travel south to find peace and quiet but they are not birds. Even if a few of them fuss over finding rare books and perfect cribs while others puff up and chase off innocent but curious eye, they’re still not birds. But if they were, they might be like penguins and swans and the small ones who scream and cry until placated with shiny car keys and pilfered sunglasses might just be magpies.