Disclaimer: I don't own Good Omens in any of its incarnations. Duh. It'd have 900% more angst otherwise. A.N- For the prompt "Air." I know, I know, I'm a damn tease. I am left all high and dry now too, but I couldn't make everything I wanted to work properly in one day... Hopefully June will be propitious.

We will soar

Aziraphale misses so, so many things from the past. Eighteenth century fashion was lovely (fine, possibly it's because he's never felt more beautiful than in a now-infamous French prison). Romanesque architecture is still his favourite: strong without pretense, decorated without being overwhelming. All poetry is brilliant in its own way, but it's not really been the same in Europe since vowels lost their quantity.

None of these things are important, though. The world changes – at a breakneck speed, sometimes, or so it seems – while he stays constant. He will update just enough, and nothing more. As soon as people stop prying, in turns concerned and scared by a living relic of the too far past, he settles again.

Of all the things he had to put aside, there's one he's the most wistful about; in some convoluted way, more for Crowley than for himself. The sky is full these days: planes, helicopter, this new drones fad (his beloved has kept him in the loop, as usual), sometimes the odd spaceship too.

But even before the latest newfangled inventions popped up, the truth is that it's been a long, long time since either of them could take flight and just be considered the supernatural sign they are, ending in some church record or another, instead of having people worry about drugs, poisoning, or something of that ilk. Centuries.

And sure, he's starting to feel a bit cramped himself, but that's not what annoys him. He simply aches for the Crawly he met back in the Garden.

Cutting his hair was cruel – his love has such luscious locks – but styles come and go, and sometimes he still gets to see them. If it's an especially lucky decade, he might card his fingers through them, too.

He supposes that Crowley has a point when hiding these golden eyes from the general public, because people are considerably silly; at least, when they are truly alone he usually can talk his beloved into looking at him, open and as artless as Crowley will ever be. Yes, alcohol is often involved, but it doesn't make it any less of a treasure Aziraphale guards better than he's ever sheltered anything in his life.

But these gorgeous wings – black as they might be, Aziraphale is more than ready to croon the Song of Solomon at them. With Crowley switching genders as mood takes, it wouldn't even be wrong half the time. He misses them. He wants to see his heart soar.

And fine, maybe he's been moody for a while, maybe too transparent (hopefully only to him!), because the following time Crowley lets himself in the shop, he offers Aziraphale the next best thing. "Angel, uh... I have a favour to ask."

"Yes?" He wants to say, "Anything," but sometimes Crowley's requests are terrifying. Yes, everything went well. Still.

"Would you... help me with grooming?"

Crowley sounds awkward, and the angel can't help it, he huffs a laugh. "I didn't think you'd ever wish to share my style."

"No, no, I mean, you can say not, but – not style." Crowley almost grimaces at the last word, but then he half-turns, and the leading edge of a tertiary appears, like a tease, and Aziraphale sucks in a breath.

"Of course."

Crowley ends up kneeling on the sofa, head pillowed on his arms, wings splayed behind him. "They're a pain to do alone," he mumbles. It's an excuse, yes, but it's also true, and Aziraphale suspects there's a point in it.

"Comfortable?" he asks, just looking for the moment, examining the worst tangles and considering if he's going to need supplies. A sponge, maybe? All he gets in response is a wordless hum.

He can do this. Of course he can. A flight might be...quite a while in their future (especially together – then again, anyone is entitled to a pipe dream. right?) but the angel is going to make sure they're ready for it.