Cowritten by Arthur Albion
Summer 2022
It was a common enough occurrence every decade that Crowley would, without fail, turn up in the Spring to help Aziraphale with his wings as the angel went through his moult cycle. The only exception had been in the eighty or so years after they had a falling out over the question of Holy Water. Crowley was willing to preen those beautiful white wings whenever Aziraphale might, or might not, ask, but he insisted on helping during the angel's moult at the very least.
Despite the many attempts and offers of returning the gesture on the part of the angel, Crowley had never asked or even mentioned his own moults. Never in almost a full millennia. Aziraphale had not once been able to work out when the demon moulted or if it was even every decade like himself. Perhaps demons moulted every year or every other decade or even once per century. He couldn't be sure. He knew the demon had wings, so surely they must moult as well.
They were a few years on from the failed Armageddon, but not too much had changed. They spent considerably more time together with a substantial lack of work between them.
It had been a warm and breezy sort of summer week, and Aziraphale had the thought that maybe a slight change of pace might be nice. They dined out often, but the countryside was calling to him. The urge to get out of London, even if just for the day, was too much to ignore. It was early enough in the morning he hadn't bothered to open his shop yet and decided he wasn't going to. Aziraphale caught the bus to the grocery store before catching another bus on his way to Mayfair. A miracled picnic basket would suffice, but he preferred human-made food.
Knocking on the door, he hadn't considered how early in the morning it really was. Early by a demon's standards, at least. There was no reply. Knocking once more, he hesitated a moment before letting himself into the flat. It was just as minimalist as he remembered, but he knew it was not without its touches of warmth the deeper one ventured into Crowley's space. Aziraphale left the basket on the counter in the kitchen.
The office was empty aside from the giant desk and ornate throne. The sitting room was also empty as well as the corridor full of plants. They weren't shaking, but he took this only to mean Crowley was still asleep. The angel spared them a small smile of encouragement but knew better than to comfort them. It always made him feel guilty to leave them in such a state, but he continued on through the apartment. Surprisingly, he found the bedroom also empty. Unwilling to trust his eyes in the dark, he entered the room with some apprehension and placed a hand on the blankets. There was no serpent curled within them.
Beyond confused, Aziraphale was getting a little worried. He focused himself as he pushed his senses outward for any sign of Crowley. He came back to himself and was surprised with the information that Crowley seemed to be in the washroom. At least his demon seemed to be alone in there, so his worries subsided a bit. Leaving the bedroom, he continued on down the hall. The door was closed, as was common of an occupied toilet. Hesitating, he knocked. "Crowley?"
There was a great splashing sound from within.
Aziraphale cracked open the door and was met with a great deal of steam rushing out into his face.
"Aziraphale?" The door was pulled open and more steam escaped the room. Crowley was soaking wet and his wings were out. The bathroom was unbelievably luxurious. It shouldn't have fit in the space allotted, let alone within the entire flat. The bath was more of a pool going by the size and shape of it. The bottom seemed to be sunk down a few feet into the floor. The entire far wall was, presumably, a floor to ceiling mirror though it was too fogged to see much. "What are you doing here? What time is it?" His expression turned grim. "Did something happen? Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes, I am quite all right, dear boy. I thought we might go for a picnic, the weather has been so nice." Aziraphale couldn't help but notice that Crowley had been bathing, but the wings caught his eye. He had only ever twice seen the demon's wings. Wings, however, were generally not meant to be wet. A bit of rain was one thing, but to be entirely soaked through was another completely. A wet wing meant you were grounded, and they took so long to properly dry out. "What are you doing?"
"Uh, just having a bath."
Crowley's shifty tone caught his attention immediately. It wasn't often the demon lied to him, which should have been surprising for a demon. Aziraphale kept his gaze level on Crowley, waiting.
"Okay, okay. Shut up. I was, cleaning my wings."
Aziraphale smiled, a little smugly, but didn't rub it in. He knew it was second nature for demons to lie and had always been so appreciative of Crowley's tendency towards honesty. "I'm so sorry to intrude. Please, continue. We can go for a picnic another day. I'll just let myself out, and-"
"Wait!" Crowley's hand shot out as if to grab the angel's wrist, but he stopped short not wanting to get Aziraphale wet. His hand hung in the air between them.
"Oh. Yes?"
"Uh. It's just," Crowley glanced around the corridor as if expecting something to be there that should not be, but never quite meeting that blue gaze. "My wings."
Aziraphale glanced over Crowley's shoulder again at the gorgeous grey wings. "Bit damp, yes. What about them?"
Crowley somehow managed to look strained and guilty at the same time, trying to express his point without words. His hand continuously clenching and unclenching. "Well, it's just, they're, uh, I'm, no. Never mind. It's fine. Picnic, right, maybe next week? Should be, should be done by then, yeah."
The angel quirked an eyebrow at the odd comment. He glanced from the yellow eyes that would not meet his own to the damp wings as he considered such odd behaviour. Then it clicked.
"You're moulting, aren't you, my dear?"
Crowley blanched as he finally pulled his hand back to himself and awkwardly glared at the floor. He began shifting from one foot to the other. "Might be." He was so quiet, almost vulnerable.
"It's nothing I can't handle. I'll see you in a week, yeah? Picnic." The hand on the door was shifting it closed once more, hoping Aziraphale would take the hint and leave him be. In six millennia, he had never been caught mid-moult. By anyone. He briefly wondered if Aziraphale had been this embarrassed in 1025 the first time Crowley had caught him in moult.
Acting fast, Aziraphale had a hand on the door keeping it open. "Nonsense. You've been helping me for centuries. I would love the opportunity to finally return the favour."
Crowley knew better than try to push the door shut. The angel was much stronger than one might assume just looking at him. Stronger than the demon, too. "I've told you, you don't owe me, angel." Retreating back into the bathroom, he sighed. "You've never owed me anything."
"I'm well aware." Aziraphale kept his hand on the door but didn't move without the demon's permission. "It was never about owing you anything, you know. You never let me help if I didn't come up with some excuse."
"You weren't supposed to be helping demons." Crowley put his hands on either side of the sink glaring at himself in the foggy mirror.
"And yet I did. I hardly see how this is relevant, dear."
"It's not. Not really. Not anymore."
The angel was quiet for a moment on the other side of the door, before he spoke again. "Will you let me in?"
"Not like I could stop you." Sighing, he turned around to face Aziraphale, leaning back against the vanity hands still resting on the countertop behind him. He knew what the angel was waiting for, but he was loathe to say the words aloud. He was still a demon.
Recognising Crowley's way of assent, Aziraphale pushed the door open and smiled. "Thank you, my dear."
"Mm," Crowley looked sadly at the bath. It was easier to pretend he was upset about it. He thought about their usual setup when he preened and cleaned Aziraphale's wings, but Aziraphale's wings were also never this wet. Or wet at all. "Should I sit? I didn't exactly make this easy. Wasn't expecting, you know."
"Whichever is more comfortable for you."
With a wave and a snap, the bathwater was gone taking the moisture from the air as well. Crowley enjoyed the humidity and heat, but he knew his angel did not. If he had been in shed, he would have kept the damp air, even if Aziraphale didn't like it. Shedding was difficult enough as it was, let alone the physical pain and extra effort of trying to shed dry skin. The thought Aziraphale might be able to help with his sheds crossed his mind, but it was quickly dismissed. Aziraphale seeing him like this was bad enough.
"We can use the bed. It'll be easier. 'S what we usually do, anyway." Clicking his fingers once more, Crowley dressed himself from the waist down then gestured out of the washroom. He grabbed a few exquisitely fluffy towels from the rack as he followed Aziraphale out. They couldn't just miracle his wings dry, but this would help remove a lot of the water from the feathers.
Crowley was still in the middle stages of moult. A lot of the old feathers had already fallen out, and the new pins were just beginning to open themselves. Normally, he used the moisture to help ease the casings off and keep them from sticking in his feathers. It might not be the best method, but it worked with his sheds so he had decided millennia ago that it couldn't be the worst means to speed along the moulting process.
Following the demon into his bedroom, Aziraphale took off his cream coat and draped it over the nearest bit of furniture away from the damp wings and rolled up his sleeves.
Draping one towel over his shoulder, Crowley used the other to begin drying one wing as he followed Aziraphale down the corridor back to his bedroom. He didn't really care about the trail of water drops that he left on the floor, and the demon was also not too concerned about anything in the flat getting wet.
Pausing in the doorway to his room, he hesitated as he watched Aziraphale move around the bed. The notion they had done this before, many times, was distracting.
The angel turned curiously toward Crowley when he didn't move from the doorway. He suppressed a smile, remembering the first time the demon had helped him with his moult. He was acting very similarly, even though they had grown significantly closer and more trusting since then.
"Sit on the bed, my dear."
Startled out of his thoughts, Crowley glanced back at his wings. They were still damp, but at least they were no longer dripping. "Uh, yeah. Sure."
Crossing his own room felt like an impossibly long journey. Perching on the edge of the bed facing away from the angel, he let his wings relax behind himself. He was tense and a little jumpy.
Aziraphale moved slowly behind him, not wanting to startle the demon. He was well aware of the level of trust involved in helping a moult. He knew just how difficult it was to be vulnerable at that stage, especially for Crowley.
"Now, let's see. The base," Aziraphale muttered aloud. It was more for Crowley's sake than his own, so the demon could know where the angel intended to work before he even touched him. Gently, he placed his hands among the ruffled feathers and began to work.
Even knowing the contact was coming, Crowley still flinched. He couldn't help it. A shudder went down his spine, but he was able to keep himself from jerking his wings too much under Aziraphale's hands. Slowly, Crowley stretched them both out, careful not to hit the angel in the process. The sensation of someone else touching his wings was new, but not completely unwelcome. It might have been if the hands had belonged to anyone besides his angel, but there was no one Crowley trusted more. No one else he trusted at all.
Just above where the feathers began to poke out of Crowley's back, the skin was an ugly, red discolouration and the skin itself was twisted in places as if it had not healed properly after being burned. The skin below his wings showed two more matching scars. The four scars of a former Seraph missing four wings. The middle pair had been all that survived the Fall. He felt lucky to have any wings at all.
Blue eyes lingered on the scars, hands slowing as he saw them for the first time, but Aziraphale made no comment and forced himself to look back at the feathers in his hands. His hands were gentle in their work, but steady and confident. He eased out snagged old feathers to make room for the new, picking out the little bits of dirt and the casings Crowley's bath hadn't washed away, smoothing out the feathers. He also used the corner of a towel to carefully dab away any excess water hidden underneath the plumage to help Crowley's wings dry faster. He didn't imagine it would be very comfortable having wet wings for an extended amount of time.
He continued to mutter to himself as he moved along slowly down the wing, following the forearm of the wing out to the alulae before making his way down to the secondaries. He took no offence whenever Crowley twitched or fidgeted under his hands, knowing it was a natural reaction to having one's wings touched. Once he finished one wing, he wasted no time to begin working on the other, being careful to only touch feathers and not skin as he worked from the base out.
Remaining quiet as Aziraphale worked his hands across and down his feathers, Crowley sat stiffly doing his best not to move and not to think. It didn't work. Whilst he was able to hold still, he couldn't stop his thoughts. Thoughts mostly occupied with mentally following angelic hands as they roamed over him. Even now, a few years post-Armageddon, they weren't particularly physical with each other. They might cuddle in the winter when the weather was intolerably cold in Crowley's reptilian option, or recline together on the couch as the serpent slept and the angel read. Touching was less awkward, but not significantly more often. Not like this.
When Crowley felt Aziraphale pull away, he almost jumped again at the movement. He could already feel how much better the new feathers sat without the casings and without the old feathers. Folding them into himself, Crowley closed them off from the mortal world so he appeared not to have them at all. He would shake them out later when he wasn't being watched. "Thanks, angel. I appreciate it."
"You're welcome, my dear." Aziraphale stared at the demon's unobstructed skin, now unable to ignore the scars across the demon's back and the pit that had opened in his own stomach. Unable to stop himself, he gently brushed his hands across Crowley's shoulders.
A second shudder ran down Crowley's spine at the contact. He could guess what the angel was looking at. Something he himself had never been able to see but had felt burned into his being since his Fall. From his own hands reaching around to touch, he could imagine how the skin looked in the places where his wings were not. "Angel?" There was a slight edge to his voice. Not one of anger, but more like that of prey ready to flee the predator. Only Aziraphale could make him feel this vulnerable, and yet know he was completely safe.
"My apologies. I was just looking at, well-"
"Yeah," Crowley sighed but still didn't relax. He hadn't felt this tense since the days leading up to the end of the world. "After sixty centuries, I usually don't notice the pain. Almost feels like being burnt all over again sometimes. Not really painful anymore, but it's like a, a ghost limb most of the time. I guess."
"Yes, I understand that sort of absent feeling."
The demon nodded, remembering they both had wings stolen from them. "I did wonder. But you don't have scars. I've never seen them on your back. When I preen your wings, I mean."
"Not on my corporation, no."
"Oh." Crowley made a sort of head jerk that might have been reminiscent of a half nod. Aziraphale's hands dipped a bit lower from his shoulders in what most humans would consider a very nice back massage. Slowly, gently, they passed over the damaged skin. Crowley startled, but he had been expecting this to happen since they began.
Aziraphale's voice was barely audible when he spoke, for once not hiding a single ounce of sadness that bled into his tone. "I have never seen lovelier wings than yours, my dear."
"Then you've never looked at your own wings in the mirror, angel."
Aziraphale choked on a laugh. "They're only nice because you take such good care of them for me."
"They were beautiful in Eden, too. They've always been beautiful." Just like you. The statement floated silently in the air between them. Unsaid, but understood.
The angel's hands lingered over the scars, then he leaned forward and lightly placed a kiss on the upper right scar. "As are you."
Breath hitching, heat rose in the demon's face. He was glad to be facing away from his angel still. Instinct screamed at him to pull away. To stand up. To miracle up some sunglasses and a shirt and coat. To play off the moment as a joke or ignore it completely. Habits built over thousands of years were difficult to break.
Crowley ducked his head, resisting the urge to flee. "I, uh, thanks."
Aziraphale smiled. "You're welcome."
Letting the poor demon have a break from his affections, Aziraphale reluctantly took a step back and picked up his coat. "How about I make us some cocoa, hm?"
"Oh. Yeah, sure. If you like. Should be some in the kitchen." Crowley clicked his fingers and knew Aziraphale would find everything he needed and wanted. He still couldn't look up from the floor, and his face was still dusted in pink though the colour was receding with a force of will.
Aziraphale slipped his coat on as he left the room, humming a tune about a singing nightingale he had heard somewhere. Probably not in the Bentley.
Exhaling slowly after the angel had left the room, Crowley dropped himself backwards onto the bed in a boneless flop. Lying on his back, he gazed up at the ceiling. In the millennia he had spent preening Aziraphale's wings and helping with his moult, Crowley had never expected the reverse situation to be so tense between them. He hadn't been expecting it to ever happen at all to find out if he was honest. He knew it was his own fault for being so on edge, which had only made the situation worse for them both.
Hands moved of their own accord up to cover his face as the demon held in a low groan. Treading into new territory like this was exciting, but also nerve-wracking for him.
Crowley knew he was being stupid. Aziraphale clearly didn't have any reservations about what had just happened. Aziraphale had always been the one to set the boundaries, and Crowley toed and nudged at them. The boundaries weren't so visible anymore. His arms slumped back to the bed as he sprawled out. Without boundaries, it was hard to know where they stood.
It only took him a moment or two to shake himself out of his thoughts. Standing, the demon clicked his fingers then slipped a hand into his pocket. The other hand pulled his sunglasses out from an inner coat pocket and slipped them onto his face.
Crowley nodded at Aziraphale when he entered the kitchen, but kept his eyes covered and his head down. Silently, he slouched against the counter.
The angel didn't seem in the least perturbed, bustling around the kitchen as he poured two mugs of warm freshly made cocoa. He held the first mug out to Crowley with a soft smile. "I hope the weather keeps. I was thinking of going out to the country for our picnic."
Accepting the mug, Crowley shifted his glare from the floor to the cup. In spite of himself, he glanced up when Aziraphale spoke. "What? Oh, right. When did you want to go?"
"I was hoping soon. I understand if you need another day with your moult, but perhaps after that?"
"Oh, it's fine. I usually just, deal with it. Doesn't really stop me from doing, well, much of anything. Can't, er- couldn't let anyone know when it was happening before. Not information you want to get out in case the wrong parties Down There or Up There might find out. I don't like when anyone gets the drop on me." Moulting made Crowley vulnerable to attack, and vulnerability made him paranoid. "So, you wanted to go tomorrow? Weather should hold. I think."
"Tomorrow is perfect."
"Should I drop you at the bookshop?"
Aziraphale paused with his own mug of cocoa in front of his lips, considering it. "I don't wish to intrude, but would it be all right if I stayed? Seems a shame to drag the basket all the way back to the shop."
"You're always welcome here, angel."