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The only thing better than crêpes in Paris is watching Aziraphale enjoy crêpes in Paris.
Aziraphale doesn't simply eat, he luxuriates. The galette Crowley ordered has long been passed to the one who'll most appreciate it, from the crisp, thin edges to the delicate cheese melting over cured ham; Aziraphale himself skipped over simplicity for pure indulgence, a crêpe of apples and caramel and eau de vie. "Let me tempt you," he says as he offers Crowley a forkful, a microcosm of apple and sauce, and the mischievous glimmer in his eyes says he knows exactly what he's doing. Crowley raises his eyebrows, leans forward, and takes a bite.
The apples are tart and cooked soft, the caramel's sweetness and the whisper of alcohol taking the edge off the bite. There's no crash of lightning, no rumble of thunder or oncoming rain, but Crowley still feels the sudden need to hide himself from the angel's soft, open face.
"Not bad," he says, instead. "Don't know if it lives up to the first, though."
Aziraphale's mouth purses, amusement hiding behind chastisement as his eyes flicker to Crowley's sunglasses, then back to his plate. "Really, my dear."
"It was a bit of a waste, wasn't it?" Crowley continues, as if he hadn't heard. "That whole tree, full of apples, and I didn't even try one."
"It wasn't for us," Aziraphale says, voice even, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. "And I think they've done remarkably well now that they've gotten the hang of cultivation - you know not every apple is suited for crêpes. Or pies, or cakes, or eating. Just look at the Red Delicious, what a regretfully misleading name - "
"Ah, no, that was one of mine," Crowley says, smugly. Aziraphale frowns.
" - regardless," Aziraphale says, "this isn't an apple from the Garden. This is from the Earth."
He takes another mouthful and his argument loses its impact with the pleased little smile that crosses his face from thorough enjoyment and the tiny angelic thrum of delight. It's intangible the same way the angel's blessings are, a sense of holiness that makes Crowley's skin tingle for lack of any other sense-translation to his corporeal form, and Crowley leans his chin on his hand and watches Aziraphale clean up his plate. "'s been a while since we've come here," Crowley says. "When was it?"
"Oh, it must have been..." Aziraphale mulls over a delicate mouthful. "It can't have been the Revolution. 1793?"
"What, when I saved you and your pretty little shoes from the guillotine?"
Aziraphale shoots him a brief indecipherable look before he glances downward, faintly mournful. "I miss those shoes. Fashion really isn't the same these days."
"It's not like you've kept up," Crowley says, waving a hand lackadaisically. "What's another century or two out of time? Go back to your lace and stockings if you like."
"It - it felt too indulgent to keep after that. And it was such a hassle putting everything on." Aziraphale swallows his last forkful and sets his cultery neatly on his plate, then glances at Crowley through his eyelashes. "I'd hoped to start to catch up to things now, but I'm afraid I may have been too slow to start."
Crowley stills. He's not really sure they're talking about fashion anymore. "Er," he says, "well - it'll always still be there, angel. For ages, now. No more deadlines."
"Yes," Aziraphale says, "I really must thank you for that - "
"Please don't," Crowley says quickly, and gestures the waiter for the bill.
Aziraphale gracefully lets the distraction stand as the picks up his jacket and they head out to the city streets. They wander down narrow alleyways and tourist-packed streets in comfortable, reminiscent silence until Crowley musters up the nerve to say, "Speaking of 1793…"
"Hm?" Aziraphale's attention turns to him, so bright it feels like he should be burning.
Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets, at least as far as his skinny jeans allow. He manages to keep his voice nonchalant. "Don't think I didn't see the state of you last week. At the airfield."
The connection clicks in Aziraphale's brain and he blushes, suddenly pink. "We're not talking about this on the street."
"No one'll notice, angel," Crowley says, failing to hide his growing smirk. "I could come right out and say I remember the last time we were here I ended up wrists-deep in your feathers - "
"Crowley!" Aziraphale's pink blush has crept up to his ears, and Crowley winks at him when Aziraphale furtively glances around and finds his own outburst attracted more attention than Crowley's - which is to say one or two people vaguely glance their way before they return to what they were doing. Crowley has long found humans uninterested in personal drama unless it's of the intriguing, rubberneckable sort, and all that's happening here is that Aziraphale considers talking about the state of his wings as risqué as the human he looks like would consider talking about sex.
There are not that many similarities between wing grooming and sex. For all that they both involve parts normally hidden in polite company and a sensitivity to touch, Crowley's self-grooming is not at all equivalent to Crowley making an Effort for his personal enjoyment. To let someone touch your wings is like inviting them to come inside and clean your house, if your house was your very essence and you knew if they did a bad job or moved things around too much it'd be an awful bother to fix it. That is to say, it is not particularly erotic, but it requires an exceptional amount of trust.
In 1793, Crowley getting wrists-deep in Aziraphale's feathers after only a few sly comments on how ruffled he looked had made him feel strangely uncertain, almost like they were… going too fast.
(In fact, when Aziraphale, pink-cheeked and preening, offered to return the favour, Crowley had stammered something incomprehensible and fled the room, returning a few hours later with apologetic pain au chocolat. But they didn't talk about that.)
But it's been two hundred years, and this time Crowley has A Plan.
"It - it isn't as if you have any legs to stand on," Aziraphale says, sounding as if he's powering through the embarrassment with sheer force of will. "You're looking singed around the edges yourself, my dear."
Crowley is snake enough he can't blush, but that doesn't mean his body can't try. "What?"
"I said," Aziraphale says, emboldened, "you're looking - "
"I heard you the first time!" Crowley hisses. His 's''s come out more sibilant than he means them to. "Two seconds ago you were all, 'we're not talking about this here' - "
"And you said no one will notice, Crowley," Aziraphale says, with too much logic and not enough fluster. He's starting to look amused, the bastard. "If it discomforts you to talk about…"
"It doesn't," says Crowley, discomforted. "I'm just - surprised. Shocked. Thought you'd think it too impolite."
"Well," Aziraphale says, thoughtfully, "I suppose it isn't as if it isn't true. And you did such a lovely job with them last time, I've never really gotten the hang of doing it properly myself, particularly the coverts - "
"Fine!" Crowley says, a little too loudly. "I'll look at them, angel, no temptation required."
"The Ritz, then?" Aziraphale's smile is bordering on smug, and Crowley has to remind himself that this was exactly what he wanted. Aziraphale isn't winning this little game, not when Crowley's the one who thought of it first.
The angel wastes no time in shaking out his wings once they're ensconced in one of the nicest rooms the Ritz in Paris has to offer. They do look worse for wear, his naturally stunning white feathers all out of sorts, and he settles on the king-sized bed (for Crowley's sole use, of course) and gives Crowley what amounts to a come-hither flutter of his eyelashes. "If you would, dear," he says, and Crowley swallows and joins him.
Touching Aziraphale's wings doesn't burn, either. The oil that coats Crowley's fingers as he runs them carefully down Aziraphale's primaries should be holy enough to discorporate him, but instead it tingles, ethereally warm. Crowley starts from the top, tugging away stray feathers from a lonely molt. "How long's it been since you even looked at these, angel?"
Aziraphale shifts, wings pulling up before he physically relaxes them. "I looked at them," he prevaricates, badly. "It's difficult to do by oneself, I'm not sure how you usually manage it - "
"Mirrors," Crowley says. "Flexible joints. Wait, you're not saying the last time you had a proper groom was here?"
"Is that really so surprising?" Aziraphale keeps his voice even, but he can't hide how his feathers ruffle. "Goodness, Crowley, you know I'm hardly in the position to ask another angel."
"Sorry, sorry," Crowley says, and smooths down Aziraphale's feathers, straightening and oiling. They're so brilliant they nearly glow, as the manifestation of angelic grace they are, and Crowley feels an ache in his chest that he's not sure is envy or empathy. "I'll take care of them for you."
"I know," Aziraphale says, with a certainty that makes Crowley's unnecessary pulse skip a beat. Aziraphale glances at him again over his shoulder, eyelashes dipped, eyes a clear sky-blue. "You always have."
How is it, Crowley has wondered for the last two centuries, that the angel can trust him with this, and yet not with his heart? Crowley has not let a single creature near his wings since the Fall. Aziraphale has offered up this profound, unconditional trust with no concept of how much it means to Crowley, as a demon cruelly cut off from Her grace, to have it at his fingertips once more. It is freely given, offered by an angel overflowing, and sometimes Crowley has dreamt of drinking of it until the gaping wound of emptiness left from his Fall has healed.
He wouldn't, of course. He wouldn't even know where to start. And he has the distinct feeling Aziraphale would let him take and take and take until he was full.
Crowley works through Aziraphale's coverts at the languid pace of enjoyment as the angel starts up a conversation on the rest of their itinerary. Aziraphale loves visiting bookshops and fairs and churches and Crowley prefers gardens and museums, and they bicker over landmarks and novelists - "Hugo was one of ours," Aziraphale insists, obviously not believing it himself, "don't you dare tell me otherwise," - as Aziraphale's wings turn neat and gleaming under Crowley's attentive care. Crowley keeps it up until he can no longer justify it, smoothing already-perfect feathers and skimming fingertips over skin, until his hands smell like golden oil and Aziraphale: books, tea and dust in the rain.
"Looks good," Crowley says, instead of the dozen compliments that come to mind, and stands to clean his hands. The scent will still linger for weeks. "Champagne, angel?"
"Oh, if you insist," Aziraphale says fondly, the way he does when he gives in to one of Crowley's temptations. "And, well, I don't suppose that this time you'd like me to…"
Aziraphale, faintly pink and actually glowing with angelic pleasure, is impossible to resist. Crowley sighs.
"Yeah, all right," he says. "Just let me get drunk first."
Aziraphale's eyes soften in a way that makes Crowley's skin crawl. "I don't mean to force you, my dear."
"You couldn't make me do anything," Crowley lies, and twenty minutes later, is well on his way to tipsy on champagne.
Aziraphale sips delicately at his own glass and eyes him like he has questions he doesn't want to voice. Crowley has questions, too, though, "I don't know how you did this," isn't really one. "You wouldn't even admit we were friends, and yet you let me…?"
He gestures, wide and uncertain. Remnants of holy oil still cling to his fingertips.
"I'm terribly sorry," Aziraphale admits, taking a fortifying swig of champagne. "I… I couldn't admit to it, I know. That we were friends. I was always so worried about what they would do to you - "
"And you just let me fuck around with your wings like it was nothing," Crowley says, takes a breath, and shakes out his own. Aziraphale was right about them being scorched around the edges, but Crowley's wings always smell faintly of fire and smoke. He refills both their flutes, then tips his sardonically toward Aziraphale. "All right, have at it."
"It wasn't nothing," Aziraphale says, quietly. "Not to me."
Crowley loves him, stupidly, overwhelmingly. The least he can do is meet Aziraphale halfway. "I mean it," Crowley says, his voice coming out rougher than he means it to, and settles back onto the bed, wings spread. "They're all yours."
"I've always thought they were beautiful," Aziraphale says. "Dark as the night sky."
His touch feels like benediction. Crowley closes his eyes.