A/N: Sarahenaney on AO3 brought this little bunny to my attention and it was so lovely I had to tag this onto the end of the story ^_^

Just a wee bit of fluff!

Crowley didn't want to open his eyes.

Everything hurt. Not the sharp, agonizing stabs of pain from the day before (at least he assumed it was the next morning, but he also knew what assuming made out of people). Rather it was a dull ache that subtly throbbed somewhere persistently in the background, from his face all the way to the tips of his wings.

It didn't help that his wings had been out all night and that he'd slept sitting against the wall, so now they were stiff and uncomfortable. Crowley was almost afraid to look at them. His head hurt more than the rest of him, pounding with the rhythmic reminder that said CROWLEY YOU DRANK AN AWFUL LOT CROWLEY YOU DRANK AN AWFUL LOT CROWLEY as though he needed that on top of everything else.

Point being, he'd been drunk as anything the night before and might very well have imagined what he thought was a visit from the angel.

So if he opened his eyes and looked at his wings they might actually still look like the archangels had gotten their hands on him. His feathers would be gone, and Aziraphale would have one of them which would do awkward things to their friendship, but it wouldn't matter because as soon as he stepped foot in Hell he'd probably be mistaken for a really tasty snack and die slowly anyway.

Crowley fancied none of these things. But really, how long could he be expected to sit there on the floor without moving because he was too scared to open his eyes? Best to buck up and just get it over with, figure out what he was dealing with, and go from there.

Crowley peeled his eyes open, gaze tracking over to the draping wing that had been ripped apart by the archangels.

His mouth curved up into an achy smile.

"Angel," he murmured with the same fondness that had gotten him into all this trouble to begin with. All ten primaries were exactly where they were supposed to be, sleek black and undamaged like they had never been plucked out at all. He didn't want to think about how much energy it must have taken, but Aziraphale had managed to completely heal his wing.

Straightening slowly with a groan, Crowley disappeared his wings and painfully twisted this way and that in search of Aziraphale. The angel was nowhere to be found. Just as well, because if their mere fraternization was so dangerous for both of them, then Aziraphale staying the night at his flat would be something akin to… well, suicide.

The smile slid away to the delightful accompaniment of bruises on his face screaming at him for moving too much. Yeah, they were going to have to steer clear of each other for a while. But Crowley would obviously have to keep an eye out from a distance, because he still wasn't convinced the archangels wouldn't figure out what Aziraphale had done, and God- Lucif- SOMEONE help him, if he ever saw Aziraphale as banged up as Crowley felt right now, he would make it his life's work to end Gabriel.

So he really hoped the archangels never figured it out, because honestly how was he supposed to do anything about three archangel bullies?

Crowley shifted, thinking about getting off the floor, and only then did he notice—and really it was embarrassing how long it had taken him—that he was holding something he knew he hadn't been holding the night before.

Looking down, the demon's fingers uncurled.

"Angel," he whispered for the second time that morning, heart thumping somewhere in the region of his throat where it wasn't supposed to be.

The feather was small. Too small to be a primary, a gleaming white covert feather that he recognized immediately as Aziraphale's. It was warm in Crowley's hand, like it was considering burning him because it was holy and pure, but had decided against it because feathers didn't do that sort of thing.

A piece of paper was folded around the shaft, which Crowley scrambled to unroll now without letting go of the soft white feather.

"Crowley dear", it read, "thought it best not to stay too long in case anyone started looking. Your wing should be good as new but do try to take it easy for a day or so, won't you? We'll have to be dreadfully careful for a while. In the meantime, you hold onto this. In case you were worried anything had changed, you know, and of course it hasn't. –A"

Crowley looked back at the feather, feeling its lightness in his palm. A covert wasn't a trophy, so cost Aziraphale nothing, but that was the point: neither of them needed or wanted to have any power over the other. Equal footing. The one thing Crowley was afraid they might have lost.

Swallowing back some stupid emotion or another, the demon clambered stiffly to his feet and grabbed his phone. He didn't know any phone numbers because who has the time, but that was okay because his phone would call whoever he imagined it calling. And right now, Crowley was imagining the bookshop with all his might.

"Yes, hello?" Aziraphale soon answered in the voice of one clearly still lodged firmly in a book.

Crowley opened his mouth to say something suave and clever, but all that came out was a choked, "Angel…"

"Crowley?" Aziraphale immediately replied. "Are you alright, my dear? I'm terribly sorry to have left you there like that, but…"

The demon swallowed, forcing himself to get it together, or at least to sound like he had, even though no one in the world really had it together if we were all being honest.

"You, uh… left something here," his mind finally came up with as evidence of "having it together". It wasn't very strong evidence.

Aziraphale paused for a second. "Yes. Listen now, I know what happened was awful and might be on your mind for a while…"

"You didn't have to do that, angel. I don't need it. I'm really alright."

"Oh, Crowley, you asked me if I was going to keep yours with me to… 'keep you in line'. Forgive me for saying, but you're not alright."

Yeah… Crowley vaguely remembered he'd said something to that effect, and he cringed now to hear how it sounded. For crying out loud, this was Aziraphale they were talking about. If he'd actually done that, it would have been Crowley's cue that the real Aziraphale was in trouble somewhere.

"I say lots of things when I'm drunk," he groused irritably to cover the embarrassment at having said something so stupid. "Doesn't mean I really thought it."

"Yes, well, I want you to hold onto it anyway. I trust-" The angel stuttered slightly, then recovered, and Crowley could almost hear him blushing. "I trust you, Crowley. At any rate, it's just a small one, doesn't mean anything. Just like everything else that happened. But, so you know that of course I would never- I mean, I couldn't… I- oh drat, you know what I'm trying to say, don't you?"

Crowley had been pacing as they talked, but now collapsed carefully down onto his chair, kicking one leg over the arm and leaning back with a sigh. "I know." And while he was trying to pretend like he was still the toughest thing around, hearing Aziraphale say so was everything he needed. He realized he was still holding the feather, perhaps a little too tightly, so set it on his leg to keep it from getting crushed. It sat, so shining white that it practically glowed. Not unlike Aziraphale himself.

"And you know they were wrong, don't you, dear? You're not beneath them. Well, that is to say, they are archangels so technically we're all of us quite a bit lower on the hierarchy. But that doesn't mean they're better, and in fact sometimes I quite wonder if they ought to be down several pegs—that is, not that I would ever say so, but really."

Crowley bit back a smile, amused as always when the angel started his nervous babbling. Already, he was feeling so much better. He cupped his palm beside the feather and blew out forcefully, creating a gust of wind that sent the feather swirling into his open hand.

"They were wrong about you too, you know," he suddenly said, though he hadn't planned on it.

"What's that?"

"Gabriel. And the others. They were wrong about you. Took everything I had to bite my tongue, those idiots. Squeamish… weak constitution… not to mention-" Crowley stopped short of going off about how reluctant Gabriel had been to ransom Aziraphale back in the first place, when Crowley had been forced to pretend like he was holding the angel hostage. The archangel had made it clear that Aziraphale was replaceable, when in fact he was not.

But Aziraphale had been unconscious for all of that, and Crowley couldn't bring himself to tell the angel how little his own side thought of him. Aziraphale didn't deserve that.

"Oh," the angel chuckled. "It's quite alright. I mean, you must admit, compared to the archangels, I'm hardly a-"

"Don't."

"What?"

"Compare yourself to the archangels. You're nothing like them."

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. Crowley waited, watching the soft white feather sit in his palm, curving gently like a little smile, with a pearly finish that stood out even in the darkened room. The downy barbs at the bottom fuzzed softly outwards. It was still warm, but still not burning, more like the way a heart felt when met with kindness.

"Well…" Aziraphale finally said, "Thank you."

"Ngh. I gotta go, angel. Just wanted to call and… you know… say…"

A thousand things he could say danced on the tip of his tongue, but nothing really came out. The beat of silence stretched on uncomfortably until Aziraphale chuckled slightly.

"Of course, my dear. And likewise, I'm sure. Right. Toodle pip."

"Oh, and-" Crowley started, but the angel had already hung up. Crowley looked at the phone, then tossed it aside. With both hands now free, he carefully ran the feather between his thumb and forefinger. They were still friends. They were still equals. And the day was coming, he was more and more starting to believe, where they might be all the other had.

Until then, at least he had this as an unspoken promise.

To the empty room, Crowley finished what he'd been about to say:

"Thanks."