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When Crowley walks up to the entrance of Aziraphale’s bookshop, there is a ‘closed’ sign flipped outward in the shop’s window.
This has never stopped Crowley, as this sign is displayed quite frequently, and usually means: ‘Closed for everyone except Crowley.’
“Angel?” Crowley calls as he enters.
When he receives no answer, Crowley walks further in. Normally, the Angel would be engrossed in reading, or organizing his shelves, but he isn’t visible anywhere. Even after checking between each row of shelves, and even the back room, there is still no sign of him.
Crowley is certain he’s here - he can feel Aziraphale somewhere in the vicinity.
With only one place to look, Crowley climbs the stairs to the flat above the bookshop. The Demon has only been there a few times, as Aziraphale himself is rarely up here.
Crowley reaches the door to the bedroom, giving it a firm knock.
“Aziraphale?”
He hears shuffling inside, and the sound of Aziraphale saying something he can’t quite hear. Then, “come in, my dear!”
As Crowley enters, he sees Aziraphale sitting on his bed, turned slightly away.
The Angel is already apologizing for something or another. However, Crowley isn’t paying it much thought, as his attention is solely on the wings spreading from Aziraphale’s back.
They are not the ones he remembers from Eden - pure white, like snow, without a single feather out of place, a vision of utmost holiness.
They’re entirely different.
The undersides are still white, with the tops a soft brown color, reminiscent of the waistcoat Aziraphale loves wearing so much. There is a striped pattern to the ends of the wings, and the feathers are a mix of messy and straightened, as if he’d been halfway through with preening them.
“Do you like them?”
The nervous tone snaps Crowley back to reality, tearing his eyes from those wings and to his angel’s eyes.
“Of course I do. I’m guessing this is a recent change, then?”
Aziraphale nods. “I’d thought, after the whole ‘averting the apocalypse’ business, it might be nice for some... some change in my life.”
Crowley steps closer, inspecting the newly-colored wings.
“I certainly like them better than your old wings. No offense.”
“None taken,” Aziraphale says. “White wings were Heaven-mandated, of course. Didn’t want anyone becoming too individual.”
“Glad to see you’re breaking away.”
A pang of longing runs through Crowley. One of his hands reaches out to touch the enticing sight, but he stops himself quickly.
Not quickly enough, evidently, as Aziraphale pushes his wing closer to Crowley, saying, “You can touch them, if you’d like.”
The Demon hesitates, but he can’t really force himself to reject that offer. Not when the wings are so inviting, and Aziraphale’s blue eyes are looking up at him so innocently.
It feels as soft as Crowley had expected. He runs his hand across, marveling up close at the new colors and patterns on the surface. Then, he simply appreciates how they feel under his palm, how he’s been thinking about this for what must be centuries, because of course he’s been imagining it, and now here he is.
The feathers are still disorganized, and Crowley’s fingers itch to carefully pull them back into place. Except, well, it’s so... intimate.
Embarrassingly, the words tumble out of Crowley’s mouth anyways. “Can I- I mean, would you mind if I helped you finish these?”
Aziraphale seems to consider this for a long moment.
“O-of course you can, my dear boy. I always find it tedious anyways.”
Crowley sits down, taking extreme care with Aziraphale’s wing as he begins to work. There’s a sort of calming routine to it, which is good, since Crowley’s heart is beating out of his chest.
The simple task leaves his thoughts free to roam, and roam they do.
He wonders if, perhaps, Aziraphale might allow him to do this regularly. The Angel has always complained about being terrible with the upkeep of his wings, but Crowley has always been too wary of offering to help, for fear of going too fast.
After everything that’s happened, however... well, maybe it’s about time he asked Aziraphale if kicking up the speed a touch would be unwelcome.
Aziraphale hums lightly as he brushes his fingers through his scapulars, right where the wing connects to his back. The Angel makes no further sounds as Crowley moves to the next wing, once again starting outward with the primaries and moving in.
When his hands push the last few stray feathers back into place, Crowley feels disappointment seep in. He miracles preen oil off his fingers, but doesn’t move away quite yet.
“Crowley?”
The Demon jumps.
“Um... would you like me to preen your wings too? I- I mean, it’s only fair.”
Crowley’s mouth drops open in surprise, and he scrambles to say something semi-believable.
“Of courssse!” God- Sat- Fuck his hiss, coming out at the most inconvenient of times. “It’ss only fair, like you sssaid.”
He turns, hoping to hide the blush quickly overtaking his face, and pulls his shirt over his head.
Wings flap out into reality a moment later, black and sleek, like Crowley prefers them.
He feels one of Aziraphale’s perfectly-manicured hands gently touch his wing, and it takes everything in him not to push into that touch.
“Your wings seem well taken care of, my dear.”
I’m an idiot. Crowley realizes he’d preened them only a few days prior.
He could play it off, say he’d forgotten, except... then this moment would be over. With Aziraphale’s fingers tangled in his feathers, he tries to think of some excuse.
“W-well, yes, but it wasss a bit of a rush job. I could usse another passss through, to really, erm, oil them up!”
It’s a blatantly obvious lie, but Aziraphale doesn’t call him out on it. Instead, he begins to work, and Crowley relaxes.
The Angel’s fingers feel like Heaven on his wings, and he unconsciously relaxes even further into them.
In actuality, his wings had been well-groomed before this, but Aziraphale still makes sure to look over each feather. Even still, there isn’t much to preen, so Crowley makes sure to cherish each and every touch while he can. After all, who knows if Aziraphale will indulge him like this again any time soon?
When the Angel’s hands still against his scapulars, he knows the grooming has probably finished. However, Aziraphale doesn’t move away, and Crowley keeps himself motionless.
The hand moves even further inward, to the down feathers covering the area between his wings. The contact makes him shiver.
“My dear?”
Aziraphale sounds worried. Crowley blinks slow, the fingers brushing against his back sending strange but pleasant sensations coursing through him.
“Sssorry, ‘ss a bit sssentssitive. But it’ss okay, angel.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Not every day that sssomeone wantss to touch me, conssidering where I used to work.”
“Oh, Crowley...”
“It’ss fine, I only mean- touch all you’d like.”
Aziraphale’s hand disappears from his back, and Crowley thinks he may have gone a step too far.
Arms encircle his torso, Aziraphale’s forehead resting just above his wings, and it knocks the breath out of Crowley’s lungs. Not that he needs it, but his lungs have become quite accustomed to taking in air.
“Is this okay?”
The Demon covers one of the encircled arms with his own.
“Yessss.”
Aziraphale nuzzles against his back, his wings circling Crowley’s sides as well, as if he could somehow shield him from the world, and from Hell especially.
Crowley leans into the embrace purposefully this time, letting himself enjoy this piece of intimacy.
Aziraphale’s head pulls away from his back, arms still tight around Crowley.
Soft lips press against the sensitive down on Crowley’s back. It’s so intimate, so loving, that he can’t help when he lets out a breathy noise.
It makes Crowley’s heart ache with love. Before the not-pocalypse, he’d always pushed the feeling down, knowing angels could sense that sort of thing.
In this moment, however, he throws caution to the wind and just feels.
The Angel tenses for a moment. Their hug ends, Aziraphale’s hands resting on Crowley’s hips - not breaking the contact, letting him silently know that it’s okay.
“Crowley.”
“Hm?”
The Demon has never felt more vulnerable, more unsteady, than he does now.
“I need you to turn and face me,” says Aziraphale.
He does just that, preparing himself for the worst.
Instead of pity, or guilt, or even anger, he’s met with an expression of overwhelming fondness.
A hand comes up to cup Crowley’s cheek. The other touches his glasses.
“Do you mind if I...?”
Crowley shakes his head, not trusting his own mouth to say the right words.
His sunglasses come off, and Aziraphale stares into his eyes for a long moment.
“I’d very much like to kiss you now.”
As way of answer, Crowley leans forward.
His eyes close, Aziraphale’s lips meeting his own chapped pair. Their hands find each other, fingers entwining. It’s nothing like Crowley had imagined, and better than he could have ever wished for.
Crowley is the one to pull back, keeping the kiss quick and chaste. He lets out a relieved laugh.
“Sorry that took so long,” Aziraphale says.
Crowley squeezes his hand. “I would have waited as long as it took.”
“Really?”
“Would I lie to you?”
Aziraphale gives him a gentle kiss.
“No, I don’t believe you would.”