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Water droplets splattered the icy stone as the angel withdrew his wing from above the demon’s head, glimmering in the broken golden light that fell in stripes betwixt rolling storm clouds. The desert sands were nearly brown, densely smothered by the first rainfall and unsure how it felt about it. Crawly could relate.
He watched Aziraphale give his wings a gentle shake, a bewildered tint to his expression at the unfamiliar sensation. “They should dry out fine,” he commented in answer to an unasked query.
Crawly offered a noncommittal grunt. He stared as one of the angel’s pure white feathers came loose and settled beside his own scaled foot. Without thinking, he plucked the feather from the ground and stuffed it deep in his robes.
Later, in solitude, he held the fluffy feather against his wings, and it dazzled like the silver of the moon tucked within an abyssal, starless night.
~
When the demon slithered out toward the sands, Aziraphale studiously ignored how empty it felt to stand there alone. The other angels had left once the humans were deemed unworthy, but Aziraphale lingered.
His eyes drifted to the spot where Crawly had stood, to his left as the heavens opened the rivers of their palms to flow upon the Earth. Instinct had told the angel to protect, to guard, and Crawly had let him.
On the ground, trapped in the cut of rough-hewn stone, was a slender, black feather. Hesitantly, Aziraphale lowered himself to see it better, wondering if it would be unwise to touch a demon’s feather.
But he couldn’t leave it there, could he? That would be…bad, most likely.
It was surprisingly soft, cradled in his fleshy hands, light in a way the sword was not, but sharp just the same. He stored it in the folds of his robe and tried to forget it was there.
~
Crowley collected things, over the years. Reminders of where he had been and who he was. The feather was one of them. It never deteriorated, as an angel’s feather would never dare, and sometimes, Crowley liked to pull it out and just…look.
~
Quills were a lovely invention. They were satisfying to write with, if occasionally unwieldly. And if there was a slim, black feather amongst Aziraphale’s quills that never saw any use, no one paid close enough attention to notice.
~
Crowley found Aziraphale’s – his own – feather one day, long after the world failed to end, in the bookshop where he spent most of his time. Standing by the desk, he held it pinched between two fingers and tried to remember the last time he’d even opened his wings.
“Ah,” Aziraphale murmured from across the room. “You found…”
Crowley looked between the feather and Aziraphale’s flushed face, gaping. “All this time.”
Aziraphale knew what question he was asking. “Well, that is…yes.”
Crowley gently laid the demonic feather on the desk, smiling softly at it. “You should come by my place sometime. See if you can...find its match.”