ii.

nine days after the apocalypse

Crowley awoke with a start to the sound of something clattering out in the hall. It took him a moment to remember where he was, but gradually the worn wooden slats of Aziraphale's bedroom ceiling, shaded greyscale in the dark, came into focus as he stared upwards. Whatever he had been dreaming about was dissipating from his memory like so much smoke in the wind, leaving only a faint queasiness behind. He lay there for a while longer, trying to steady his breathing, before he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

"Aziraphale?" he called, feeling at the still-warm, yet unoccupied spot beside him on the bed. It took another moment, but the door creaked open and Aziraphale shuffled in, clutching a mug and looking sheepish.

"My apologies," he whispered as he set the mug down on the bedside table. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Well, I'm up now," Crowley said, though he wasn't annoyed, not really. He scooted closer to Aziraphale as the angel slipped beneath the covers, then touched Aziraphale's forehead with the back of his hand before he could protest.

"Really, my dear," Aziraphale sighed. "I'm feeling much better already. You needn't worry so."

"I'm not," Crowley insisted, pushing another pillow behind Aziraphale's back. "But you look tired. What are you doing awake?"

"Just fetching a drink."

"I can see that for myself, thanks." Crowley scrutinized the heavy bags beneath Aziraphale's eyes. "You've been awake for a lot longer than that, though."

Aziraphale slumped against the pillows and closed his eyes. "Oh, all right. I can't sleep, though Heaven knows I tried." He coughed. "Whenever I lie down it's difficult to breathe, but sitting upright makes my head ache." He opened one eye to peer at Crowley before closing it again. "It's a fairly common occurrence among ill humans, or so I'm told."

The thought that neither of them were human in the first place crossed both their minds, and politely went unspoken. Crowley bit his lip. "I could run out and find a chemist's, if you like," he offered. "I'm sure they have some medicine or other that could help. Humans are clever like that."

"But not clever enough to cure the common cold," Aziraphale muttered. Then, more gently, "That won't be necessary, my dear, thank you. It will pass. I simply have to wait it out."

He burrowed into the blankets and turned away from Crowley, though there was a sense of resignation to his movements. Crowley reluctantly slid back beneath the covers and studied Aziraphale's shoulders. The two of them didn't strictly need sleep, of course, but one developed certain routines after living among humanity for thousands of years. For all of Aziraphale's claims that virtue was ever vigilant, he'd taken to sleep like a duck to water once Crowley had introduced the concept to him. Now that Aziraphale was ill, of all the impossible things, he would be feeling the lack sorely.

Ordinarily, Crowley would have miracled some sort of solution and called it a day, but although his own capacity for minor miracles was improving in leaps and bounds, creating things from raw firmament was still beyond him. Neither he nor Aziraphale had taken ill before, and he had little idea of how to care for an unwell person¹ beyond the vague knowledge that too-high a temperature probably meant bad news.

[¹ Unwell plants, on the other hand, he was quite familiar with, and he had in fact discreetly published several articles online about identifying the symptoms of leaf rot, bacterial canker, and mite infestations in sansevieria. Unfortunately, he was fairly certain that his methods for treating ill plants would be ineffective on Aziraphale. He could hardly yell threats at the angel to grow better, then secretly plant him in the gardens of St James if his health didn't improve, after all.]

Staring at the back of Aziraphale's nightshirt, however, produced a vague idea somewhere at the back of his mind. He leaned over and gave the angel a poke.

"What is it?" Aziraphale sounded tired and irritated, though Crowley tried not to take it personally.

"Do you reckon you have enough power to bring out your wings?"

Aziraphale rolled over and gave Crowley a puzzled look. "Yes, I'd say so," he said after a moment. "But whatever for?"

"Well, the last time we had our wings out was when the world nearly ended. We haven't exactly been able to look at them properly since." Crowley tried not to fidget at Aziraphale's continued steady stare. "I, er, don't think I can bring mine out just yet, still feeling a bit drained, but you're almost recovered, and I thought I could help you. Um. You know."

Aziraphale didn't respond. Crowley backtracked. "You know what, forget I said anything. Shouldn't be asking you to strain yourself so soon and all that. I'll just, er, go back to sleep now —"

Aziraphale said, "Alright," and Crowley's heart sank until Aziraphale closed his eyes, furrowed his brow in concentration, and manifested a pair of massive grey-and-white wings that split through his nightshirt² and narrowly avoided striking the ceiling. Crowley yelped, then worriedly patted Aziraphale's face when the angel remained prone, eyes still closed and breathing heavily as though he had just run a mile.

[² ordinarily Aziraphale would've preferred to remove his shirt first, but he was too physically tired to move around any more than he needed to, and too magically tired to consider miracling the shirt off on top of summoning the necessary energy to manifest his wings. It had been a rather tiring week in general, come to think of it.]

"No, no, I'm alright." Aziraphale huffed out a breath and pushed himself up with arms that trembled slightly. "Just wasn't expecting how much effort it would take. Not nearly as recovered as I thought, it seems."

"I'm sorry," Crowley said wretchedly. "Thisss was a ssss — a stupid idea, you're unwell and I made you go through all that for nothing—"

"Crowley," Aziraphale interrupted, touching Crowley's wrist. He smiled gently. "I don't mind you grooming my wings, my dear. In fact, I would greatly appreciate it, if you're still up for it. I've never been able to figure out how you can get your feathers to lie so straight."

"S'the only part of me that is. Straight, I mean," was all Crowley could think to say after a stunned silence. He cringed immediately, but Aziraphale only smiled and murmured "thank you" before turning over and laying his wings bare for Crowley to see.

It had been a spontaneous idea, but now that Crowley faced the prospect of actually grooming Aziraphale's wings, he hesitated. They'd seen each other's wings before, of course, and even preened their own feathers in each other's presence on several occasions once the trust between them had solidified³, but touching the wings of another was a rarity even among angels⁴. It required a profound trust, and a willingness to put oneself entirely at the mercy of another. Even supposedly benevolent, all-loving angels had trouble dealing with such vulnerability, and the thought of baring one's wings to the Enemy didn't even exist as a concept.

[³ meaning approximately a week after they first met. Aziraphale had been startled to discover that Crowley even had a human-shaped form in the first place, but he grew accustomed to it soon enough. Crowley, on the other hand, had found it frankly baffling that any occult (or ethereal) being could stand having their wings in as disreputable a state as Aziraphale's, but he was tactful enough not to mention it.]

[⁴ as for demons, well. The thought of Hastur or Ligur getting within an inch of his primary feathers was enough to make Crowley shudder. Though now that he thought of it, he had walked in on the two dukes unexpectedly before on some errand or other, only to find the two of them standing several feet away from each other, looking off in opposite directions, shirts off and glossy feathers scattered suspiciously on the ground. Ligur had always claimed they had been doing a spot of torturing for some other poor demon, but Crowley couldn't think of anyone else with quite the same pattern of bronze stripes on their secondaries as Hastur, who never had so much as a feather out of place during these interrupted "tortures". A healthy dose of sensible terror had prevented Crowley from ever mentioning this, of course. It seemed he never did really talk about wings much, at least not until now.]

Then again, Aziraphale had never been a normal angel, and Crowley hadn't been the ideal demon for some time now, despite his occasional half-hearted efforts.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale craned his neck to peer over his shoulder, concerned. His outstretched wings fluttered in an uncertain fashion, then began to fold as though Aziraphale was preparing to winch them back in. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Crowley managed. "As long as you're, er, okay with it and everything. Just give me a moment."

Aziraphale's wings relaxed and spread out again, and Crowley allowed himself a few unnecessary deep breaths before tentatively reaching out and resting his hands on fluffy white coverts.

They were soft, he noticed immediately. Beautiful as always, for all their slightly dishevelled state. And warm. Perhaps overly warm, and Crowley made a note to persuade the angel to rest for a few days longer until he was more recovered. But this all proved to him that he was actually touching Aziraphale's wings. He gently stroked the edge of a long feather, which smoothed beneath his touch. He couldn't remember the last time he had ever touched another being's wings, or had his own wings groomed by another. If he had ever done so as an angel, those memories were long gone. It certainly hadn't happened anytime after his Fall.

The force of long habit kicked in, and Crowley found himself carefully running his fingers through Aziraphale's flight feathers, smoothing over rough spots and straightening misaligned shafts. Aziraphale sighed, a quiet contented sound that immediately sent butterflies flitting every which way in Crowley's stomach.

Any lingering nervousness gradually trickled away the longer Crowley worked. Beneath the sleek outer layer of feathers lay warm downy fluff, softer than anything Crowley had ever felt before. Even further beneath that were muscles and bone, strong and unyielding. Aziraphale had always had a wider wingspan than Crowley, with faint grey dapples breaking through the white that reminded him of a snowy owl. Crowley's own wings were more like a gull's, smaller and more suited for speed than endurance.

"You have so many loose feathers," Crowley said as he carefully tugged a bent feather free. "When was the last time you preened your wings properly?"

Aziraphale hummed. "Some time ago. Can't really recall, to be honest."

"Had your nose too deep in a book to remember, I expect," Crowley teased, giving Aziraphale's coverts a gentle pat. Then he gave into the urge to press his palms deep into the cloud-soft fluff, marvelling yet again at the feel of feathers in his hands. Aziraphale lifted his wings in answer, a cozy half-embrace.

All too soon, Crowley was smoothing down one final primary feather, ensuring the tufted ends lay flat. Even when fully preened, Aziraphale's wings held a vaguely ruffled quality to them, as though he were perpetually windswept. Crowley found that he liked this far better than he liked the thought of Aziraphale's wings being sleeked down with unerring severity, fit to satisfy even Heaven's strictest drill sergeants. Such a look just wasn't him. Aziraphale held his wings in the same way he wore his sweaters, valuing comfort over others' expectations. Crowley wouldn't change that about him for the world.

Nevertheless… "You ought to take better care of your wings, angel. At the very least, you'll be more comfortable if you groom all the loose feathers out. They itch if you leave them in too long."

"Why should I?" Aziraphale mumbled into his pillow. "S'not like I have any uniform inspections coming up anytime soon."

Thank Somebody for that. "Well, then. I guess you'll have me to preen them for you," Crowley said, a bit thickly. A lump had unexpectedly formed in his throat.

Aziraphale's only response was a quiet snore. His wings lay limp and heavy over the bedsheets, but one lifted slightly to blanket Crowley in soft white feathers when he curled up at the angel's side.

"Sleep well, angel," Crowley said quietly, closing his eyes. Meanwhile, somewhere out in the ether, beyond the boundaries of the physical world, the silver wings of a demon stretched wide and fluttered.

A/N: Wasn't expecting to continue this, but here we are. Third and final chapter will be going up soon!