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“Your wings,” Crowley informs Aziraphale, in the tones of one delivering a straightforward, definitive assessment of an irrefutable reality, “are an absolute mess.”
Aziraphale glances at the demon, mildly stung. He doesn’t often manifest his wings on this physical plane; as a matter of fact, Aziraphale reflects, he’s not sure Crowley has seen them since that memorable first meeting, some few thousand years ago in Eden.
“That’s not very polite, I think,” Aziraphale says now, though the words of reproach carry no real bite. They seldom do, with Crowley.
Crowley shrugs. “I’m a demon, I don’t do polite. Just saying, though. They’re your wings, your problem, not mine. Just don’t look very comfortable, is all.”
Aziraphale grimaces before he can catch himself, then hastily smooths his face over and hopes Crowley didn’t notice what could be interpreted as an indication of admission to discomfort. Aziraphale’s wings do itch occasionally — or, it could be argued, constantly — that much is true. But it’s nothing that ever prevents him from doing what he needs to do, so it hardly matters, really.
Besides, what does Crowley expect Aziraphale to do about it anyway? Groom himself? The very idea…
Well. It is an idea that he has contemplated from time to time, Aziraphale must admit, if only in the privacy of his own head, in passing. But there is a very plausible possibility that grooming oneself could be considered an act of vanity; Aziraphale is not certain, but given his lack of certainty, it wouldn’t do to take the risk. And of course he knows better than to ask one of his superiors about it. The archangels have so many more important things to worry about than a principality’s wings, after all.
“I appreciate your concern, Crowley. Do you have any suggestions, then?” Aziraphale is trying to capture that distinctive note of dry causticity that he’s heard Crowley use at times when the demon wants to give a particularly sarcastic retort to something. Alas, Aziraphale’s attempt falls woefully short of the tone he’s aiming for.
Perhaps that’s partly because he realizes that he means the question a little more genuinely than he intended, and a lot more genuinely than he ought.
“Hmm.” Crowley gives the impression of hesitating for a minute, before starting to answer the question. “If you want, I could—” The demon breaks off abruptly, shaking his head and mumbling, possibly to Aziraphale, possibly to himself. “Nope. Ngk. Never mind. No suggestions here.”
There’s an undercurrent of something in Crowley’s voice, however, that Aziraphale doesn’t want to ignore. “What were you saying?” he asks.
“Nothing. Nothing at all! Forget I said anything. I mean, I wasn’t saying anything.”
“Yes, you were saying something.” Aziraphale frowns. “It sounded like you had an idea.”
“Nope. Nopenopenopenope. Was a stupid one anyway. Even if I did have an idea. Wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because!” Somehow, the mood has shifted from their usual multi-layered banter to something much more fraught. Crowley is staring Aziraphale down, yellow eyes intense, bordering on panic. “I can’t. We can’t. You can’t. You’d have to…”
“To what?”
“To trust me,” the demon finishes quietly, and looks away.
And for whatever reason, Aziraphale is only half taken aback by the answer that rises readily to his lips. “But I do trust you.”
Crowley jerks, still staring wildly at Aziraphale, then breaks their gaze again. “But, but. But you shouldn’t. ‘M a demon. Evil. Wily. Adversary. Snake in the grass. Remember? Not to be trusted. I mean. Y’know. Might stab you in the back, first chance I get.”
Aziraphale considers Crowley. “Are you going to stab me?”
“No! Of course not! But… but you don’t know that! I could be lying to you!”
“You don’t lie to me, Crowley.” Not about anything important, at least; not unless it’s one of those mutually agreed-upon lies to which Aziraphale has already given his unspoken consent. Crowley is honest with Aziraphale. It’s an unquestionable fact of existence, one that Aziraphale knows beyond a doubt to be true — even if it’s not a truth that he has ever let himself so clearly think about, let alone put into words, prior to this moment.
“But you shouldn’t believe me!” Crowley’s expression is contorted, agitated, still almost frantic.
If Crowley wanted to stab Aziraphale — in the back, the front, or anywhere else, physically or metaphorically — he’s had ample opportunity to do so in the past few millennia. He hasn’t done so.
And all at once, Aziraphale can’t stand this ridiculous argument, and Crowley’s anguish in it, any longer. The angel whirls, wings spread wide yet non-threatening, deliberately drooping low and vulnerable; nape of the neck exposed; very, very consciously turning his back towards his adversary.
Behind him, Aziraphale hears the demon make a strangled noise.
Neither of them moves.
The moment stretches on, interminable. The atmosphere feels far thicker than should be physically possible.
Aziraphale is not stabbed in the back. He fails to find this fact surprising on any level.
Finally, he sighs and turns halfway back to Crowley. “Well now.” Aziraphale tries for a smile. “There you go. See?” Despite his best efforts, the angel’s voice sounds weak to his own ears, tremulous and flustered.
Aziraphale is more than flustered; he’s frightened. Not by his own recklessness. Not by the unspeakably vulnerable position he just put himself in. No; he’s frightened by his own total lack of fear at that recklessness, his own willingness to be in that vulnerable position.
Especially alarming is the sudden and certain knowledge that Aziraphale wouldn’t mind putting himself in that position again.
They stand there, angel and demon, neither speaking, avoiding each other’s eyes. Time passes, as it is wont to do.
Eventually, Crowley clears his throat. “Aziraphale.”
“Yes?”
“I— angel. Look. Do you trust me?”
Aziraphale gives an irritable huff, and pushes away the fear, opting in favor of frustration instead. He will deal with the consequences, the guilt and the anxiety and the second-guessing, later, when he’s on his own. Later. Not right now. Right now, “I told you I do,” he snaps back at Crowley. “And I showed you, too. What more do you want from me?”
“I guess you did. I don’t know. I don’t want anything. Gah. Bugger all this.” The demon’s lips are slightly curved now, face still twisted, but — Aziraphale observes with an immense sense of relief — the current contortion of Crowley’s features is somehow less tortuous, less tortured, than its predecessor. The air density is beginning to return to something resembling normality again, too.
“If you want,” Crowley says softly, and his voice now sounds almost as small and wobbly as Aziraphale is feeling, “I could… I could show you… I could do… ngh. My suggestion. My idea. For your wings.”
Aziraphale considers this statement. “Is your idea something that I would like, do you think?”
“You—” Crowley falters momentarily, then hunches his shoulders and continues. “I think you might like it. I— my guess is you probably would. Wouldn’t suggest it otherwise. But.”
“But what?”
“You’d need to turn around again.”
“Is that all?”
Aziraphale turns around.
He has just enough time to wonder if he should be tensing up, but not enough time to actually begin to do it. Then Aziraphale feels hands touch his wings — hands that are warm, and alive, and vibrant, and infernal, and yet so very careful and caring that it doesn’t even occur to him to panic over the strangeness of it all.
Later, and again and again afterwards, Aziraphale will pick this day apart in memory. He’ll treasure every touch, agonize over every moment, question his own comportment, worry and wonder and wish.
He’ll do all that, later, and again and again and again for centuries to come.
For the time being, though, Aziraphale lets his mind simply melt into the sensation of Crowley’s fingers combing through his feathers; neatening the mess, easing the itching, smoothing, straightening, stroking from shoulder blades to wingtips. Deft. Gentle. Trustworthy. Trusted.
Crowley’s guess was correct. Aziraphale does like this.
The grooming does feel good. But the trust feels infinitely better.