Comments - Well here it is finally, my chaptered 'Good Omens' story. It's probably not very good, but I like it, and I adore messing around with my favourite wingéd pairing, Aziraphale/Crowley. Not that this is overly slashy, it is probably bearable to the non-slash fans, but it does have the occasional overtone, and if I ever do a sequel, that will definitely be angel/demon all the way.
And now, without further adieu, I give you the first chapter. (Note - lyrics were originally used in this story, and I am going to note which ones are used for each chapter. Here I used an exerpt from Voltaire's 'Feathery Wings', the inspiration for the title, and this can be seen in it's included entirety on Skyhawke).
Summary - They all thought that Adam had dealt with the consequences. They were wrong. How will the trials thrown at them affect their friendship, even their lives? Post-novel slight A/C.


Chapter One

He would never be entirely sure how he got back to the bookshop, but it was possibly only because every pain-filled step was spent cursing. Not the most angelic of behaviours, and his words didn't have any of the thoughtful venom of his demonic adversaries, but Aziraphale had all the benefit of pain and deep emotion to fuel him. He was running out of his meagre supply, however, as he turned the corner onto the dark street where he could see his cold and empty residence just waiting for him to collapse in agony in. Resorting to muttering darkly about transport, or lack of it for angels in peril, he hoped that none of his slightly dubious neighbours would notice him returning.

Lucky he'd never bothered to fix a lock, really, as he didn't have any energy or will to hunt his bedraggled clothing for a key. In fact, as soon as the heavy door swung shut behind him, the floor suddenly raced up to meet him, looking remarkably desirable considering its dust-covered, rather hard finish. For a split second, his bones felt rattled, and he could just feel a thousand bruises forcing themselves onto his once unmarred skin. But then, after that, it didn't really matter.

He'd fallen unconscious.


Considering he'd just saved the world from Armageddon, Crowley felt quite good.

In fact, he'd felt a lot better as soon as he'd disregarded his ruined suit and had a hot shower, settling down on the luxurious sofa in his large living room with a pleasantly full glass of whisky. The world was safe for him to ruin, Adam was getting on well, and not even a squeak of a repercussion from Down Below. He mused for a moment on maybe redesigning the points of the A1 to run through a few more lay lines, before the strangely-sobering alcohol brought something more important to mind.

Aziraphale. That da-stupid angel had disappeared after the Big Event, and without a much as a by-you-leave to him. Most unfair, especially as he had been hoping for one of the Angel's usual roundabout remarks on how Crowley was good underneath it all. He didn't particularly enjoy the self-pious speeches, and he sure as hell didn't agree with them, but after six thousand years, repetition left a mark on you. And Aziraphale always pulled that one out, without fail.

Damn. Now that angel was ruining his good mood. Well, nothing for it but to get it back by going and insulting the guy.

Not that he was worried or anything. Demons didn't worry about angels.

Aziraphale was probably perfectly fine.

Probably.

Five minutes later, a pristinely-restored Bentley was tearing down the road.


Urgh.

Aziraphale lifted his head groggily, wondering vaguely why he was lying face down on the floor. Still, it was a comfortable floor, he decided, so he stayed there for a moment while he waited for the rest of his brain to kick in.

It didn't take long – it never did.

'Oh yes,' he thought muzzily to himself.

All of a sudden, he wished it hadn't.

The floor, now as unappealing as usual, seemed to violently dislike his sudden decision to get up, as it resisted and tried to drag him back down again. Swaying dangerously, he grabbed a nearby bookshelf, barely even noticing the bloodstains he left as he pulled himself through the shop, the shelf acting as a support.

He felt marginally more revived when he'd pulled off the remains of his clothing, though the hot water in the shower stung his back like a million needles, and he was glad there was no-one around to hear his agonised cries as the water turned murky red around his feet. The shirt chafed as well – everything chafed against something, so he sank into his most comfortable chair (chafing as he did so).

His eyes seemed to want to shut again, and the rest of his body was agreeing vehemently, disregarding his own views on the matter. He had a killer headache coming on as well.

Well, at least he was alone….

"Angel? You in here?"

Oh He-Da- Shit.

"Yeah, back room," he called wearily, and the footsteps got louder and closer, before a familiar face appeared at the door. Sunglassered, suave, sophisticated, not a spec of dust or lint on his immaculate black suit, Crowley always cut a dashing image, even when he was driving a knackered, flaming Bentley in a mad-dash race to save the world. And it must've been Aziraphale's imagination, but behind the discreet black spectacles, Crowley looked almost worried for a moment.

But then again, maybe he wasn't, as the next set of words out of the demon's mouth were-

"Bloody hell! What on Earth happened to you!"

Aziraphale snorted. All of a sudden, everything struck him as funny.

Talking of funny – had that been concern on Crowley's snake-like face? Ha, concern from a demon?

"I don't think 'on Earth' quite covers it," he replied numbly, still fighting the urge to laugh. Loudly. Hysterically.

A glass was pressed into his hands.

It had liquid in it.

It was brown.

He stared at it.

"Aziraphale?"

Oh no, Crowley was using his name. That was never good. Crowley only used his real name when he was being sarcastic, or wanted something. He sat up, or tried to at least - the effort was there.

"What?" he asked warily.

Crowley's eyebrow rose sinuously. Well, he was a demon. "You."

"What about me?"

"You look like shit."

Aziraphale glared. "You wasted all my time to tell me that?"

Crowley shrugged. "I've got to spread evil and malcontent somehow. What better way than to piss off an angel?"

To his surprise, Aziraphale didn't respond to the barb. Most unlike him. In fact, if anything, he looked worse…

He was even more surprised to find that hurt him a little.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

Aziraphale closed his eyes as he paused. The reply, when it came, was low and devoid of any emotion.

"They clipped my wings."

The liquid stared back at him.

"Shit."

It took a moment for him to realise that there was hands encompassing his, raising the liquid to his lips and making him drink. It stung his throat, but it was nothing like the pain in his back and his head and his heart, so it didn't matter.

"Can I see your back?"

He nodded dumbly, letting Crowley carefully undo his shirt and pull it off. He hadn't been able to see that well in the shower, and there was no way in he- there was no way he was putting soap anyway near it, so he was sure it probably still looked a mess. Gabriel had never had very good aim anyway.

It was almost gratifying on the other hand to hear Crowley's gasp. To think that he had surprised a demon… if he hadn't been Clipped, he would've preened about this for days. A definite feather in his wings that one.

Wings that no longer existed of course.

Wait a minute – Crowley gasped? The two words filtered through his muggy brain. The effect was as if someone had made a remark about the sky being a wonderful green colour, and he hadn't yet decided how insane that made him. Did he hear wrong, or was the other person off his head?

Well, judging by his physical state, he put it down to post-Clipping syndrome. Whatever that was.

The time it took for Aziraphale to process this meant that as soon as he had finished, he found Crowley gone. Disconcerted, he looked around blearily, before catching sight of the demon sidling in from the bathroom, a cloth in one hand. The next minute, his back was on fire again and he yelled out, but the fire died down gradually, to be replaced by a cool, wet sensation.

Deciding that this turn of events was altogether far too weird, he gave up and collapsed.

Crowley caught him before he hit the floor again.