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It had only been a couple of days since Adam put the world back in place.
Aziraphale could still feel the gossamer of it. It hung in the air like spiderwebs. When the sunlight hit it at the right angle, it glinted. It would stay there for another week or two at least. Miracles on that scale spent weeks lingering in the air, gently flowing over the world before dissipating.
He could see it gleaming now from the window at his desk. He could taste it, almost. Honey sweet, but thick and greasy. It rested at the back of his mouth like a cure for a sore throat.
Life went on.
He went to the markets to browse and get some things to nibble on. He dusted some shelves and found nothing out of place. He had done the laundry. That was just what you did, he supposed. You got home after the end of the world and washed the dishes.
He felt like a frayed bit of old fabric. He stared at the half-written pages of his diary and tried to figure out how to put it into words.
He picked up his quill. It was a white feather with the tips encased in gold, soft and fluffy around the edges despite its age. An eternal cloud caught in the sunset. He’d had it custom-made. It danced in little swoops as he started to write.
I didn't dare let on how frightened I was , he wrote. The ink came out in long, elegant loops. His quill scratched against the paper quietly. He had always loved that sound. It was the most terrified and most free I had ever been. I only hope they took my words to heart. The thought of Crowley in that holy wa
Then came a crack. Ink dribbled onto the page. Aziraphale stared at it in disbelief, eyes trailing from the pool to the broken shaft. It bled uncontrollably, like an open wound, all jagged edges and black blood. Its entire length had a crack up the side and there was no fixing it.
He must have been pressing down harder than he realised. It was old, far older than most quills would survive for; he had miracled the tip to stay sharp so he would never have to trim it.
But old things were fragile, so he had to be gentle with it, and he hadn't. He'd never find another one like it. He could miracle it, he supposed.
But he’d know. He would always see the crack when he looked at it.
His throat tightened and fat, hot tears sprung to his eyes. He gasped for breath. For God's sake, it was just a quill. It was his fault for pressing down so hard. He roughly pressed the heels of his palms onto his eyes, trying to dry his tears.
"You old fool," he muttered.
He lowered his arms to his desk, his palms still against his eyelids. Damn it.
He wanted to curl up in his armchair and sob. He had to bite the inside of his mouth to choke it back. He took one hand from his face and fumbled about in his drawer for a fountain pen. He muttered under his breath as the various objects inside scratched at his hand like tiny claws.
A knock at the door echoed through his head. He stopped. He looked up, blinking. He stood and peered out the window, brightening slightly when he saw it was Crowley. He didn't think he'd see him again so soon. He dabbed at his eyes and pulled himself together before he went to the door. He opened it.
"Crowley," he breathed. "Good morning."
"Hallo,” he said. He held a box out, hesitating as his eyes fell on Aziraphale’s face. “Brought you some macarons."
"Oh! Thank you." He took the box, feeling warm despite himself. He moved aside for Crowley to come in without him having to ask.
Crowley stepped inside. His head inclined towards the desk. Aziraphale hurried over to it and placed the box of macarons on its surface. He snapped the diary shut. The ink soaked in further. He winced. Never mind, there was nothing he could do about that. He shoved it aside.
He reached over the desk so that he could close the blinds over it. The room darkened, but the sunlight came in through the gaps in the blinds as golden strings across the floor.
"I wasn't expecting guests," he clarified. “Tea?”
"Sure." He crossed the room, stopping to lean against the armchair's side. He looked down at Aziraphale. "I was thinking we could go out for lunch when we're done here. There's a gorgeous little spot that just popped up around the corner. Keep thinking I should take you there."
Aziraphale stiffened. He was fairly sure he was going to start crying if a breeze hit him wrong, and he'd prefer if there was nobody around to see that.
"Oh. Ah. Did you make a reservation?"
Crowley stopped short, looking at him like he'd just said a word he couldn't quite remember the meaning of. His eyebrows pulled together, wrinkling the top of his nose.
"No?"
"Then it wouldn't matter terribly if we, er, didn't get around to going today?"
"Well, no, I suppose not. The Ritz again, then?"
Aziraphale ran his hands over each other in front of him. "I was thinking I'd rather just stay in, actually."
"Oh." Crowley considered this for a moment. He jutted his neck out, looking him over. "You all right? You haven't caught some sort of angelic flu, have you?"
"Is it so outrageous to want a quiet morning in?" he said, testily. "Anyhow, I've got work to do."
" What work? You're retired, angel."
"I was fired, " he snapped. His lungs were burning. Crowley pulled back and he softened. "Never mind. You're free to go dine out, if you'd prefer."
"No, no. It's okay. We'll stay here." Crowley straightened up and walked over to the couch by the desk, sinking into it.
Aziraphale nodded. "I'll go make the tea, then."
He went into his kitchenette and brought the teapot and some tea leaves from a cupboard. His utensils clinked as he prepared it, the kettle humming to itself as it prepared to boil. The steam wafted through the room, trailing behind him as he picked up the teacups and brought them out.
Crowley sat up when he saw him and reached for the bottle of wine he had already opened.
"You looked like you needed this," explained Crowley, pouring some out into a glass.
"Isn't it a little early in the day for that?"
"Is it?" He glanced at his watch. "Nah." He added a splash of wine to his own tea.
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at him. He sat on the armchair across from Crowley and sipped from his cup. He sighed, deeply. A long, fidgety moment spun out.
Normally, the silence felt comfortable, but Crowley looked like one walking question waiting to be asked. Then something broke in the air like lightning cracking and Crowley stood up so quickly his tea almost splashed out of its cup.
"You might as well tell me," he said, walking over to him. He put the teacup down on Aziraphale's desk. Aziraphale looked at his cup and hand and decidedly at anything that wasn’t his face.
"Tell you what?"
"Tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong."
"Can I help?" he asked.
Aziraphale's breath hitched. He looked up at him. His face hovered over him, all kind and worried, and it was such a soft landing that Aziraphale couldn't help himself.
"I — I broke my quill. That's all," he said and cringed, the words sounding small and stupid as they stumbled out of his mouth.
Crowley tilted his head, then brightened. "Just a feather, right?"
"Cured and cut, but yes."
"You can have one of mine, if you like. Just so you can get back to writing until you can find a new one."
Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. "From your wings?"
"No, from my foot. Where do you think?"
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at him. But warm, nervous energy bubbled under his collarbones and he couldn't stop himself from wanting it now that it had been offered. "Do you have one on you?"
"You could pluck one. Doesn't hurt."
"Well. Yes, all right. But be careful when you get them out."
Crowley nodded, stepping back from the armchair to give himself some space. He repositioned a few times to get away from the shelves. He breathed out, sighing as his wings appeared. He kept them from fully spreading, holding them tight in the small space. He pushed his glasses further up his nose.
Aziraphale stood, circling him until he was at his back. He placed a tentative finger at the top of one of his primary flight feathers.
"You're sure?"
"Stop dithering. We'll be here all day."
Aziraphale tsked, got a firm hold on the feather and pulled. Crowley yelped, the sound making the angel frown. Doesn't hurt. What utter nonsense. He shook his head to himself.
Aziraphale held the feather up to look at it, spinning it between two fingers. It was pure black, but when he held it up to the light, it rusted a golden brown, like fresh bread. He placed it down on the desk.
He turned back to Crowley’s wings and smoothed out the feathers in the spot he'd taken it from, rubbing his hands over them soothingly. He shifted another feather to cover the gap he had left. Then he went over some of the nearby ones, tucking loose barbules back in and fluffing up some of the more raggedy parts with his thumb.
Crowley stood still for it for a moment, then looked at him over his shoulder. "Are you… preening them?"
Aziraphale hesitated, then slowly moved a finger up and down a feather, throwing an instinctual glance out the window, even though the blinds were closed. He hadn’t thought of it as preening, per se.
"I'm only tidying."
"Oh, Somebody, you're fussy," he said, and Aziraphale could practically feel the eye roll that accompanied the words, "I can take care of them."
“I’m quite aware,” he said, reluctantly letting the feather go. He clasped his hands in front of him. "They're a little sparse.”
Crowley squirmed a little, wings shifting with him, "Yeah, well. 's what happens when— you know."
"Oh. Yes."
Of course that was what happened. You couldn't burn up in the atmosphere with your wings left untouched.
Aziraphale assumed they would heal. That six thousand years were enough for them to grow back. But eternal punishment meant eternal.
It was bloody unfair.
There had to be something he could do for them. He unclasped his hands and lifted them to the base of Crowley's wings, where they connected to his lean shoulder blades. He hesitated, wondering if Crowley would object, but he didn’t say a word.
There were glands there and when his hands went over them, they became slick with oil. Aziraphale moved one of them and massaged over the marginal coverts at the top of his wing. Crowley made a choked sound and swayed a bit on his feet, like he was drunk.
"If you're gonna do that," he slurred, "I'm gonna have to sit down."
"Go on, then." He motioned to the armchair in front of them.
Crowley shook himself. He took a few steps forward and curled up with his front to the chair's back and his legs tucked up on the cushion. He rested his arms on the top of the back and his chin on top of his arms, letting his wings drape down. Aziraphale went back to working his way up and down the secondaries.
"Do they ever hurt?" he asked, quietly.
"Mmf. Sometimes," muttered Crowley. Aziraphale made a noise of sympathy in the back of his throat and Crowley hurried to add, "Not much, though."
Somehow, Aziraphale didn't believe him, but kept his lips pressed together. He worked his way back over to the primaries, going over the feathers there again. Now that Crowley was sitting, the longest ones were close to the floor. He had to kneel on the rug to get to the ends of them. The angel took his wing and spread the feathers out in his lap.
"It helps, though. This," said Crowley, his voice unravelled and soft. "Haven't done this since... well, since Before."
Oh, he could remember. Before everything, when angels groomed each other's wings in Heaven. Even after Heaven and Hell split into different factions and started their bickering, some of them would bask in the Earth's young sun as it fell between Eden’s verdant leaves and preen. But Gabriel usually chased them off, telling them they had work to do and that they didn't have eternity anymore.
“Neither have I.”
He stood and started to work on his other wing, beginning at the base. Crowley reached up and tugged at his sunglasses, muttering something about poking me in the blessed forehead. Aziraphale took them when Crowley got them off and left them on the desk. The angel went over the second wing in silence, though Crowley sometimes shifted or sighed. Eventually, he went very still and very quiet.
Aziraphale knelt again, going over the flight feathers delicately to keep from disturbing him. When he stood, the light had shifted. Some of it fell through the blinds and landed on Crowley. It made a line across his body and lit up his tattoo, reminding Aziraphale of a snake sunbathing on a rock. It went down to the end of one of his wings, which were fluffier now. His eyes were closed.
He looked so undone; a cardigan unbuttoned and laid out, with all his seams and rough edges showing. It had been a long time since Aziraphale had seen him so peaceful.
“There you are, my dear,” he whispered. “Are you asleep?”
Crowley’s eyes fluttered open. He sat up, his wings rustling like paper against the upholstery. “No, no. Are you done?”
Aziraphale watched him, fondness for this ridiculously endearing demon glowing in his chest. “I am.”
Crowley craned his neck to look at Aziraphale's work, lifting up his wings as he did so. A smile played at the corners of his lips.
“I should do yours,” he said. “Your wings. Not fair for mine to be all tidy and not yours.”
“Oh. Would you?” Aziraphale practically melted at the thought.
Crowley nodded. He unfolded his limbs, rising from the armchair. He shook his wings out and let Aziraphale take his place. Aziraphale readjusted himself a few times.
He wasn’t like Crowley: he didn’t find being a pretzel comfortable. He shifted until he was sitting sideways, like riding a horse side saddle.
He drew his wings up and out of the plane they usually resided in. The energy went through him and he shivered. His wings, when withdrawn, were a dull ache at his shoulder blades that he’d had for so long that he had stopped noticing it. He still felt the relief of not having to ignore it anymore. He sighed, letting his head rest against the chair’s back. He draped his wings over one of the armrests.
Aziraphale tensed as Crowley’s hands tugged a couple feathers apart. “These are a mess, ” he muttered.
“They’re not that bad,” said Aziraphale, defensively.
“They are and you know it. Half the feathers are all tangled.” He continued his work, then stopped short. “Are these…cake crumbs?”
Aziraphale hesitated. “...Possibly.”
“What’re you doing with these? Oh, I know what would be perfectly delightful!” he said, his voice going all posh and deep, “ I’ll fly through the clouds, and then I shall use my wings as a plate. ”
“I do not sound like that.”
“You do!”
He could hear him grinning without even having to look. Aziraphale’s feathers fluffed up.
“Oh, don’t do that,” said Crowley. “You’re getting lint everywhere. And dust. Is that a bit of paper? Bloody Heaven, it is.”
“I’m beginning to regret this,” grumbled Aziraphale, definitely not pouting.
“Okay, okay.”
He went quiet as Crowley's warm palms came to rest on his back. He started to work his hands over the oil at the base of Aziraphale’s wings. The touch sent a blossoming warmth through his body, along with a full-body shiver. He understood why Crowley had wanted to sit down now. His legs went weak, like even his bones were melting. His eyelids grew heavy.
Crowley’s deft fingers combed through his secondaries with little tugs that might’ve been painful if he wasn’t being so gentle. Aziraphale relaxed into the touch. It was the same comfort he sought in barber shops and nail salons, but magnified tenfold. His throat went tight again, overwhelmed.
“You know,” muttered Crowley, “even when we were on the airfield, I noticed your wings. It was the end of everything and I was still thinking Satan, angel, don’t you groom those? ”
Aziraphale thought back to the airfield and the sword and the way his body still didn’t fit quite right; he thought of the night he’d spent in Crowley’s guest room, certain that, despite the continued existence of the world, he wasn’t even going to get to enjoy it because he would be up in hellfire by Monday. He thought of his bookshop turning to ash — he lost it, and oh, God, he lost him . He lost everything.
Halfway through his train of thought, Aziraphale realised he was crying. He turned his face to bury it in the upholstery. He stifled a sob and it came out as a hiccup.
“Oh, no, no, I was only teasing,” said Crowley, hurriedly. “I didn’t mean it, your wings are fine—!”
“It’s not that,” he managed. “It’s not — it’s not anything. It’s — I don’t know. ”
Crowley placed a hand on the base of his wing again, toying with the short feathers there. He went over them a few times, silent save for his unsteady breathing.
Eventually, he whispered, “It’s not the quill, either, is it?”
Aziraphale sagged, sinking further into the armchair. It hadn’t even occurred to him until then.
“It’s not,” he managed, matching the demon’s tone. It felt wrong to speak any louder, the moment as frail as a soap bubble ready to burst any second if a word was spoken too loudly.
“Yeah.” Crowley’s voice came out broken. “I know.”
Crowley's hands fell from his wings. He walked from his back to his side. Aziraphale kept his face turned away, cheeks flushed red from crying in front of another being.
Crowley gently pulled at his other wing, bringing it in front of his shoulder like a blanket. He preened through its feathers, his face close to Aziraphale's as he did.
Aziraphale finally looked over the top of his wing to catch his gaze. His eyes had welled up and it made them gleam like gold. His ribs pressed in on his organs at the sight.
Aziraphale didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.
Crowley brushed his palms over Aziraphale’s primaries. He took one long feather in both hands and ran the preening oil over it, kneeling as he reached the bottom of his wing. Aziraphale followed him with his eyes, looking down at him as he got on the rug. Crowley was crying properly now, tears trailing down to his inclined neck.
They were both undone. Two fragile things. Aziraphale was stripped down to his core, right to the blue light that poked between his ribs and shone out when he was alone in the black depths before time. He was not alone now.
Angels weren't built for a love so unholy and so human. Sometimes, he wondered where he managed to fit it all. Sometimes, he wondered what it meant.
What it meant, he thought, was this: I know you. You know me. You know me and you still found me worthy.
Aziraphale smiled, but it was a wobbly thing. He reached a hand down. Crowley took it. He traced a fingertip over Aziraphale's knuckle, drawing invisible spirals over it and the angel gasped against the sob in his airway.
Aziraphale wanted to kiss him, he realised. He had realised that many times over, but this was the first time it seemed possible . He could have helped Crowley up until he stood over the armchair and pulled him closer by the tie he always wore. He could have wrapped them up in his wings.
But his heart was already screaming in his chest and he was certain that if they got any closer it would break out of his ribcage and flop onto the floor, and how was he ever going to explain that one to Heaven?
Aziraphale settled for squeezing Crowley’s hand — just for comfort, just to say I’m here. Crowley relaxed into the touch.
The demon ran a thumb over the tip of one of the angel’s feathers and Aziraphale’s world narrowed solely to the points of contact between them. Some of the weight lifted from his ribs, making it easier to breathe.
They stayed like that until the tea on the desk went cold and the line of light that now ran over both of their figures changed in hue. Aziraphale’s heart calmed and his tears dried. Crowley’s did too.
“Better?” asked Crowley.
Aziraphale nodded. “You?”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose,” said Aziraphale, tentatively, “that we could have lunch, now.”
Crowley considered this for a moment.
“Let’s get takeout. Eat it here,” he said.
Aziraphale hummed to himself. “May we get sushi?” he asked, wiggling his shoulders a little.
“Yeah. ‘Course we can.”
Crowley stood, tucking in his wings as he did. Aziraphale stood, too. He stretched his limbs, stiff from sitting, and fluffed up his feathers. Crowley slipped into the kitchenette to make a phone call. His voice murmured through the door, muffled like static behind a song on the radio.
They ate at the table in the back room when the food arrived and Aziraphale attempted to fill Crowley’s plate.
“‘M not hungry,” he protested.
“If you’re sure.”
Aziraphale pulled his wings in close to keep them from dragging on the ground. He sat down to eat, carefully handling the chopsticks to dip the fish of his nigiri into the little bowl of soy sauce. Crowley rested his chin on his hand and watched him.
“You know,” said Aziraphale, “the delivery man was looking at me very strangely. I can’t think of why.”
Crowley looked him over.
“Just one of those days, I suppose,” he said, picking up a pair of chopsticks. He took some of the sushi off Aziraphale’s plate and put it on his own, then popped a maki roll into his mouth.
“It certainly has been,” Aziraphale said, sighing wearily.
Crowley’s eyebrows knitted together. “You should sleep. Take a nap.”
Aziraphale tutted. “I’ve told you. Virtue never sleeps.”
“It sure could do with a little lie-down, though.”
Aziraphale frowned, trying to remember if he even knew how.
“Just get comfortable and lie in the dark for a bit,” said Crowley, already picking up on his next question. “Pillows, blanket. Nice pair of pyjamas. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“Hm.” Aziraphale thought it over for a moment. “I’m not sure I quite see the point.”
“Ah. If you’ve been crying, you should sleep,” he explained. “Makes you feel tired. And anyway, it’s like — before and after. The sun’s up so it’s all right now.” Then he added, “It’s a reset.”
Aziraphale muttered something noncommittal. Crowley kept looking at him with wide, gentle eyes. Then the conversation drifted to cafes and museums and everywhere they could go, now that there was time to.
They lingered in the bookshop all afternoon until the sun started to set and the warm summer air cooled.
“Sleep well, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, watching him pull on his jacket.
Crowley turned before walking out and smiled. “You too.”
As the sky grew dark he opened the door to his neglected bedroom. It existed mostly as a comfortable place to read and store his books and keepsakes. It was just as cluttered as the rest of his shop.
He stored some of his favourite books there, as well as six thousand years' worth of trinkets: ceramic animals, paintings, an 18th-century astrolabe, a globe, mosaic lamps with warm, colourful glows, a few plants hanging from the ceiling, a crystal suncatcher in front of the window and dozens of other little memories tucked away in shelves or on tables.
Under the window was an armchair, with a blanket over it where he liked to read. He took the blanket from it and threw it over the end of his bed. There was already a patchwork quilt on it.
He had to miracle himself some pyjamas, which seemed a terrible shame, but he didn’t have time to shop for any so he made an exception. Then he wriggled into bed, wrapping himself in the blankets and his wings. All the tension in him seemed to seep into the mattress. He closed his eyes and thought about how strange it’d be to sleep and how he was sure his body wouldn’t take to it.
He slept for three days.
When he finally woke, the pale pre-dawn light did feel fresh.
He pulled his wings back into him, and even their ache wasn’t so bad, though he missed the warmth of his feathers.
He made himself some coffee and a croissant just in time to throw open his bedroom window and watch the sky. It started deep and hazy like the world had been submerged underwater, with the only bright lights coming from the lit windows in Whickber Street as the earliest risers began their days. They looked startlingly orange against the blue. The blue lightened and the skies joined the windows until everything was orange and gold. The sun rose as if it were in a hurry.
Life went on without him. But at least he had jogged a bit to catch up.
Aziraphale spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon preparing Crowley’s feather. He trimmed away the vanes on either side, only stopping when he was halfway up the rachis. He removed the quick inside and the waxy coating outside.
He cured it in a little bowl of hot sand, leaving it there until it was almost as sturdy as a metal pen. He put on his glasses as he carved the tip, peering down them as he ensured the shape was just right.
When he was done, he held it up to the sunlight to study it. He said a prayer for it, bestowing a blessing that would keep the tip sharp and the feathers fluffy.
He would not, he decided, need to find a new one.
There was plenty of paper scattered around his desk. He gathered a little stack of it and laid it out in front of him. He sat down and dipped his quill into the little inkpot on one side of his desk.
He wrote Crowley a letter.
My dear Crowley,
Won’t you come over sometime? The British Library will be displaying some of your old friend Leonardo’s notes and I’d quite enjoy the walk down memory lane with you. We ought to have lunch, too.
Sincerely, forever yours,
Aziraphale.
P.S. Your feather writes like a dream.
P.P.S. I’d hold that letter Leonardo sent you very close to your chest, lest the Library attempt to expand its collection. Do you have any idea how many people I’ve had come knocking attempting to get me to sell? Not the books, the shop. Nasty business. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you next.