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Crowley kept his metaphysical wings close and (one of) his enemies closer, but Aziraphale’s wings could not withhold emotion if he tried. Being constantly visible to the demon, he could interpret the slightest angelic twitch or ruffle as peckish, weary, soft and welcoming, or any other feeling in existence over the past six thousand years. Most often, when they were in the bookshop, the angel’s wings indicated peace, puffed up with joy and devoid of tension (as long as no one was trying to buy a book). Where the demon took care to reveal little extraneous information, wing posture was reflexive for Aziraphale, like crossing one’s arms during an argument or eating the last bit of cheese out of spite.
That quiet Thursday, some months after the Antichrist had been delivered, after a new Agreement had been arranged, a bedraggled student rushed into the bookshop. They paused in the doorway and carefully shook droplets from their orange velvet skirt, eyes darting about wildly until finding the proprietor.
“Excuse me,” they whispered, stepping gingerly into the store’s center and pulling back their blue hair. “Would it be okay if I wait out the rain here? I can’t buy anything today, but I don’t want to get drenched right before class.”
From the table behind the staircase, Crowley snorted. Aziraphale beamed, his wings perking up even more than usual. “Of course, my dear!”
“You’re his new favorite customer, you know,” the demon drawled loudly.
The student blushed neon. “Um, okay. Do you mind if I set down my bag somewhere?” Their voice was barely audible now.
“Please do!” Aziraphale glared briefly at Crowley while guiding the student to a burgundy armchair. “Make yourself at home, and feel free to browse. Would you care for some tea?”
Their eyes widened. “Oh, gosh. No, I’m okay. Thank you.” They set their backpack on the chair. “I couldn’t impose.”
“No imposition at all! I’m brewing a pot, as it is. I’ll set out an extra mug—a cuppa on a damp day can set everything to rights.”
The angel bustled off to make tea the human way. (“It’s the process as much as the taste,” he’d once told Crowley, “but it honestly seems off when miracled. Like putting on a sock upside down.” The explanation invited more questions than it answered.) The demon settled in, politely ignoring the jittery teen who floated nearby as he instigated a bidding war over “Janice Soprano’s Actual Lasagne Recpie From The Set!!!!”
Hardly two minutes later, unusual movement in the student’s direction caught Crowley’s notice. A woman in a long, white leather coat loomed over them as they did their best to melt into a nearby cabinet, which was happy to accommodate. The demon’s senses came alert, though his posture remained casual and disinterested.
“People like you are the reason local bookstores are going out of business, you know,” she was saying. “Rather than throwing your money away on short-sighted vanity”—she looked the student up and down, nose wrinkling—“you could put it toward actual good.”
“I beg your pardon?” The words, polite in tone, rang from the kitchenette in challenge. The humans both saw a soft middle-aged bookseller emerge from behind Crowley, unobtrusive teapot in hand and a question in his eyes, as though he had genuinely misheard, and would you mind repeating yourself.
Crowley knew better because Crowley saw better. Beyond human sight, the angel’s wings stood at attention: drawn back, bent upward, ready to strike if need be. They shone with energy waiting for release, feathers quivering with holy force. The demon grinned and tossed his phone aside. He kicked his feet up on the table, a demitasse of espresso miraculously appearing in his hand as he tipped the chair on two legs.
“Ah, Mr. Fell.” The Loomer smiled toothily beneath her broad-brimmed hat, of the sort rarely seen outside of runways or royal weddings. “You’re so kind whenever I’m in, and I just hate to see someone taking advantage. It’s a shame that people come here to loiter instead of making actual purchases.” She looked down pointedly at the ever-shrinking student, who was avoiding eye contact.
“I see,” Aziraphale replied. “I do believe I told them to make themself comfortable, didn’t I?” The gentleness with which he set the teapot beside Crowley belied the twitch in his wings. The humans only noticed that the air around him shifted minutely, dust motes stirring in the early morning light.
“Yes, well.” The Loomer’s patronizing expression made Crowley want to set her hair aflame (just a little). “You hardly seem the type to hold your own, sweeting.”
The wings snapped once, forward and back. Perhaps it was the icy glint in dear Mr. Fell’s eyes, or the thin line of his lips, or something more ineffable, but the humans shivered.
“Well. A bookshop is a place to expand one’s knowledge, so today’s new knowledge for you is that I am capable of maintaining boundaries,” Aziraphale bit out. “You have quite overstepped mine.”
He strode to the door and opened it wide, wings laced with intimidation and wrath as they stretched high. Crowley nearly vibrated out of his seat (and not from the caffeine).
“I’m afraid we’re very much closed now.”
The woman drew her head back, eyebrows knit together. “Excuse me?”
“No,” said the angel, and snapped his fingers.
Without another word of argument or cruel glance, she marched herself out of the shop. A fierce flap of the angel’s wings shut and locked the door behind her. Only then did Aziraphale stand down with a sigh, shoulders and feathers returning to satisfied rest and smoothing their ruffled edges. He’ll need a good grooming later, mused Crowley.
On the next breath, the angel turned to the wide-eyed student, his true smile in place once more. “I’m so terribly sorry, my dear. I seem to have acquired a regular customer by mistake! Here, let me pour you some tea. A biscuit would also do you well, I believe.”
* * *
This Mr. Fell, the student observed, was quite different from the one who dispatched the rude woman a moment ago; they weren’t positive what made the difference.1 Once again, his eyes were kind and bright, and his soft white hair shone with light as he handed over a warm cup and small plate. Despite the last few minutes, perhaps this shop was the safest place in the world from any storm.
They sank into the burgundy chair, and the first sip of tea encouraged something within them—long tightened against the idea of safety—to crack open and let a speck of light through.
* * *
As Aziraphale returned to Crowley’s side, the demon murmured, “Bit overkill to make her forget the shop entirely, hm?”
“I did get a bit carried away,” the angel admitted, settling into his own chair at the table. “But … it was rather entertaining.” Then, with a tiny grin, he wiggled.
Crowley threw back his head and laughed. These were the moments he lived for, the ones that told him some day, when the time came, perhaps this delightful bastard of an angel would hold his own against a higher power. Every now and then, a brilliant flare would rekindle the demon’s quiet faith, which seemed to burn on through any storm. Sometimes, all it took was the flick of a single white feather.
1. Crowley was: The angel’s wings were at rest, in a posture that could only be described as smug.↩