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Untouched Snow and Darkest Night

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It was a warm, summer morning as Crowley moved about his apartment, windows open as the breeze moved in. It was never nearly hot enough for him, being a demon and all. Hell was always a sauna of sorts, where demons could soak and heat up their inner cores. They had way hotter inner cores than humans or angels did, so being hot was nice.

He is currently watering his plants and making sure none of them have any leaf holes. So far, none of them have any.

“Oh, Crowley.” Came a discomforted voice from
behind him.

Oh. His angel was here. He wasn't expecting that. He was expecting to have a home alone day.

He sets his watering can down on a nearby table top and turns to meet Aziraphale, a smirk on his face. “What's up, Zira?” he said in greeting, not missing the scrunched look on the angel’s face which normally foretold he was mildly displeased with something. Okay.. more of, really displeased with something. Could be anything from a book not placed in alphabetical order to a hair out of place on his head. He was staring slightly behind Crowley, though, so it had to have something to do with the demon. “Is there something on my face?”

Aziraphale seems to catch himself and a small smile appears on his lips. “Oh, no, not your face, my dear,” he replied, and the place in Crowley’s chest where a heart would be located if he were human does a small little flip. He always did enjoy it when his angel called him that, even if he'd never admit that. “Your wings.”

Crowley’s wings unconsciously press tighter to his back, and he has to suppress the urge to look over his shoulder at them. He hadn't made them visible to any creature’s eyes aside from those of angel’s and fallen angel’s for the longest time now. He sometimes forgets they're there until someone bumps into them or they knock a remote from a coffee table. And now that he's thinking about them, he really would like to stretch them out. Maybe go for a fly. Man, he hasn't flown in centuries.

“What about them?” Crowley inquires, trying not to sound offended by the fact his angel was speaking illy of his wings. He glances at Aziraphale’s wings, and takes notice that they are just as shiny and well taken care of as usual. He loves his angel’s wings. And he's told Aziraphale this fact in the past. Because while his own wings are dark and appear to be that of a crow’s, dark as night, Aziraphale’s are gorgeous. They look just like freshly fallen snow tinted with golden laces. They were amazing. And he still remembers the time one sheltered him from an oncoming storm.

Aziraphale steps closer to Crowley, eyes still trained on the ashen wings. His own wings are held comfortably behind him, visible in the only sense just as Crowley’s are. Meaning only angel's of sorts could see them. Though, of course, they are just as tangible. And Crowley wants to do nothing more than to reach out and brush his fingers through the feathers he knows to be softer than clouds.

His angel situated himself to be standing behind Crowley, and he's reaching forward, running his hand over his feathers, just as Crowley wants to do. The touch is lighter than a single feather, and if Crowley wasn't aware, he wouldn't have even known his angel was touching them. He doesn't stop Aziraphale. Anyone else, he would have already burnt. But not his angel. Never his angel.

“They're nothing but a mess, Crowley,” Aziraphale informs him in his light and singsong voice. “You really should take better care of them.”

“That's kind of hard sometimes, angel,” Crowley said, the term of endearment sliding from his tongue smoothly. Why call him an angel? That's what he literally is. But, even if he were not a true angel, Crowley is sure he'd be just as kind and soft as one. So, he sticks with the term. It suits him well. “I can't always see them.”

“Yet I can always keep my even,” Aziraphale points out, and Crowley can hear his soft amusement. He smirks.

“I'm sure you miracle them even,” Crowley replied, not missing the fact his angel is now preening away at his wings. Again, he doesn't stop him. He was right, after all. He was pretty sure he hadn't preened or cleaned his wings at least a single century. He's honestly surprised Aziraphale hadn't already taken notice of his mangy wings.

Aziraphale chuckles, a warm note that fills Crowley’s chest. “I am definitely going to need a miracle to clean these wings of yours,” he said matter of factly.

“Oh yes, I'm sure,” Crowley said. And then they both fall silent as Aziraphale continues to preen and gently pluck the demon’s feathers. It felt nice, really, and Crowley enjoyed the feeling.

Crowley is actually beginning to doze lightly when Aziraphale speaks again, “Would you possibly have a brush I could use? Your wings are quite a mess still.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. In uh, in the bathroom,” Crowley responded quickly, shaking off the sudden tiredness. Aziraphale nods with a smile and heads off for said room, leaving the demon to try and get a look at his wings. Which, he hadn't tried doing for sometime now, but they were already starting to feel way cleaner and he was curious.

He focuses and causes his wings to appear to any eye now, bringing them up and around his front. They stretch out almost happily, if wings could be happy, and he looks over them, humming with delight to see his angel’s work could already be seen. Though, Aziraphale doesn't seem to be quite content with them yet, because he is reapproaching with a brush in hand, his own wings held out behind him and still mostly invisible.

“I found it,” Azriaphale informs, quite proudly. He notices how Crowley is currently standing and frowns. “Oh? Do you not like how I've done them?”

Crowley quickly sends his wings back. He stammers, “Oh no, not at all. They are looking wonderful, angel.”

“I hope so,” Aziraphale says, returning to his previous position. Crowley raises his wings in the slightest to try and help his angel have an easier time at reaching the feathers he was so intent on brushing. “Because I would hate to make them appear worse to you.”

“Oh you shouldn't,” Crowley said. “Anything you'll do will make them look better, angel.”

Aziraphale smiles that warm smile and Crowley can't hold back his own smile. “Well, that is good,” he pauses in his words, but continues to pull the brush gently and carefully through the many, black feathers. “I was wondering. Would you be so kind as to possibly brush my wings too?”

There's a moment of silence where Crowley does look over his shoulder now at Aziraphale’s face, and his angel quickly sputters along as though embarrassed, “I- I mean, you don't- you really don't have to if you'd rather not and-”

“Sure,” Crowley said, cutting off his angel’s stammering. Aziraphale draws a deep breath in and smiles once more, as though the demon agreeing to brush his wings as well was the best thing in the world he'd ever heard. Which was ridiculous, right? He was just a demon, after all.

Another few minutes pass in silence, the only sound being the brush dragging through feathers and the angel in the room beginning to hum a soft tune. The melody is somehow familiar to the demon; it was as if it was buried deep in his mind from a previous life, from when he was among the clouds with a pair of clean white wings of his own. It must be some sort of angelic melody or lullaby, because it seemed to make the air hum along with the angel’s voice in a warm, ethereal way.

It was beautiful, to say the least.

Crowley loved Aziraphel’s voice. Singing or otherwise. It was always so dashing and comforting at the same time, being a wonderful tune even when he wasn't singing. He always did love when his angel sang; it was always much better than any of the other angels in Heaven could ever manage.

Then again, it was Crowley’s angel they were speaking of. Aziraphale was the best to be made from Heaven.

Aziraphale finishes a minute or so later, and Crowley already misses his gentle touch. He lets his wings rest for a moment, relishing in the brushed, smooth feeling they now held. Then, he holds his hand out for the brush- his angel plucks a few of the feathers that had tangled in its bristles, letting them fall delicately to the ground- and switches spots with him.

His angel’s wings become fully visible once more, and all over again Crowley is taken by their beauty. They were so gorgeous; there really were no words to describe their beauty. The best Crowley could think of was that of the sun reflecting off of the clearest, most iridescent water on the planet as it rose(never set. Aziraphale would never set) slowly into a sky dotted with perfectly white and fluffy clouds.

Aziraphale holds his wings up a tad higher, the feathers brushing together and apart again as they angle themselves higher for Crowley. He reaches forward, seeing only a few feathers that needed to be preened and does his best to gently pluck them. Demons were not known for being gentle, nor careful, but he did his best, never wanting to cause any pain for his angel. He only notices his angel flinch the first few times he plucks a feather free before he learns how to do it tenderly, not causing any pain any longer.

The feathers are beyond soft, just as Crowley remembered them to be. Softer than the softest cloud, and cooler than the freshest snow to fall to the ground. He relishes the softness, maybe dragging his fingers through the feathers a bit longer than needed. But, Aziraphale doesn't say anything about it, and so neither does he.

He then sets to work, brushing the perfect wings before him with the most care a demon could muster. He angles his head around a tad bit, noticing how his angel has lightly closed his eyes as though he was enjoying having a demon brush his wings. It makes Crowley’s chest warm all over again.

And okay, he may take a bit longer than is needed to groom his angel’s feathers- because really, they didn't need much grooming. Crowley still can't see why Aziraphale wanted him to brush them- but he finishes a few minutes later. He pulls the feathers remaining in the brush and holds one between his thumb and forefinger, brushing it with both and holding it behind his back as he does. Keeping one feather couldn't hurt, now could it?

Aziraphale turns to look at the demon with that same warm smile. “Ah yes, thank you very much, my dear,” he said, and there goes his chest doing a small flip all over again.

“Of course, no problem, really, angel,” Crowley responded, and scratches at the side of his ear because suddenly it was itchy. Then he decides to question why his angel was here in the first place. Not that he minded, really. “So, uh. Why are you here, really?”

His angel’s eyes light up in something akin to remembrance and he claps his hands together. “Oh yes, of course!” his wings do a little flutter as he walks past Crowley, the demon following behind him. Their wings brush together, black mixing with white. They basically tangle together, similar when hands and fingers are held together. “Well, you see, I was needing to discuss…”

Behind them, a few black and white feathers are left behind, silver when placed together.