Crowley woke up to a faceful of feathers. He smiled slightly, remembering what had happened the night before, and moved closer to their source, curling around the angel. His own wings draped over Aziraphale in a way that was halfway between possessive and protective.
Aziraphale, woken by the movement, turned onto his side to face Crowley. "Good morning, my dear," he said, pressing a kiss to Crowley's forehead and giving the demon a small smile.
Crowley pokes his nose into the other man's cheek lightly, humming contentedly. "Good morning, Angel," he said, playing with on one the ruffled feathers on the angel's wing. It came off in his hand, silky, soft, and completely worn out. "Angel?" Crowley turned the feather over in his hand, somewhat surprised at how easily it had come off.
"Yes, my dear?"
"When was the last time you bothered with any kind of preening?" Crowley asked, raking his eyes over unkempt feathers disapprovingly.
"Dear, nobody except you sees the wings anyways, so why is it necessary to spend time preening them?" Aziraphale answered, running a finger over a few of Crowley's perfectly groomed feathers. "Besides, not everyone has as much time as you do to spend on their appearance. Unlike you, I have a day job. The bookshop doesn't run itself, you know," he said with an air of self-satisfaction.
"Yeah, and you've barely sold a single book since you got the place. You have time to take care of your wings," Crowley shifted a few inches away from the angel, looking at the wings as if he were some kind of hairstylist. "Now let me fix it," he reached for an area in particularly bad shape.
With a sigh, Aziraphale rolled over onto his stomach, allowing Crowley free reign as he threaded his fingers through the feathers, plucking and smoothing. The angel's eyes slowly slid closed as Crowley shifted, sitting up to reach the tips of Aziraphale's wings. He worked slowly, meticulously downwards, inspecting each feather and gently plucking it away if it was worn out. The corners of the angel's lips pulled up into a small, lazy smile as he felt skilled hands run all the way up his right wing, fingers gently kneading at the muscles. And then Crowley moved to the left, starting again at the tip and turning over every feather, combing his fingers through them, massaging his way down, back up and back down again. The demon planted his hands at the base of either wing, then began working on the hardened muscles, pressing down just hard enough to earn a tiny, pleased hum from Aziraphale. He dragged his fingertips down the angel's back, careful not to scratch him as he worked the muscles in his back. As Crowley began slowly working his way up to Aziraphale's neck, the angel turned his head to look at the rather large pile of plucked feathers Crowley had set aside. "Did you really have to take out so many?" he asked, slightly disappointed and at least sixty percent sure that his wings were at least partially bald.
"Well, that's what you get for not bothering with your wings more often," Crowley said matter-of-factly as he traced the bases of Aziraphale's wings again.
"Like I said, dear, I don't have time—"
"Don't start making excuses, or I'll stop," Crowley threatened, hands already slowing.
"If you say so, dear," Aziraphale said, closing his eyes again and giving another contented hum as Crowley began working on his shoulders.