Chapter Text
The angel found the demon for once.
It was always Crowley who seemingly magically appeared when Aziraphale was in need of assistance. If the circumstances were entirely different, Aziraphale would have been pleased to finally be the one to rescue the demon. He’d felt a bit self conscious over the years as to how Crowley was always saving him, and he really hadn’t ever had an opportunity to return the favor. He couldn’t even recall his reasoning for materializing here- it was like there had been a sudden pull, an intense urgency that barely even registered before Aziraphale started moving. He and Crowley had often perched here in the heart of the Peak District when London felt too congested, and while surrounded by spectacular scenery they would have heated philosophical debates as well as rambling conversations about nothing in particular.
As Aziraphale approached, his heart began to fill with dread for two reasons; one, Crowley was laying on the ground rather motionless, and two, his obsidian wings were visible.
The angel hadn’t seen Crowley’s wings in decades; they both kept them hidden away the vast majority of the time. It was a shock to see the overall state of them as they slowly fully unfurled with some difficulty. Aziraphale felt rage unlike any he’d felt before as he took in the state of them; the normally gleaming feathers were dull and ruffled, so many vanes were torn and out of place, and with the angel realized with growing horror that many feathers were broken or completely missing, leaving behind bloody barbs and empty swaths of reddened skin that looked deeply bruised in spots. A few of the demon’s largest flight feathers had been ripped out, and Aziraphale couldn’t stifle his strangled gasp as he surveyed the damage.
He couldn’t imagine the pain Crowley had gone through to suffer such cruelty. The angel quickly peered over the rest of the demon, but couldn’t see any other grievous injuries. He had a small cut on his cheek, but nothing else. The demon’s breathing was shallow and labored, and Aziraphale knelt down in front of him and gathered his hands in his own; he was startled that the elegant fingers were freezing.
“Crowley? What happened, my dear?” He whispered, feeling nauseous as the waves of discomfort and pain and shame rolling off of the demon made a home in his angelic corporation. He tried to answer with his own swell of comfort, reassurance and love, and he gently rubbed his thumbs over the back of Crowley’s chilled hands.
For the first time since he’d arrived, Crowley turned his head to make eye contact with the angel, and Aziraphale felt his heartstrings constrict painfully at seeing the expression in Crowley’s eyes. They were fully a violent shade of yellow, the white sclera was no longer visible, and oh, the torment in those eyes took away what little breath the angel had remaining. Crowley’s eyes were rarely so serpentine these days, and usually only were when he was either enraged, concentrating very intently, or in pain. The angel wondered where his customary glasses had gone.
Crowley was amazed that within moments of appearing here, on one of the many spots they’d used to meet over the centuries, Aziraphale had shown up. He was so used to finding Aziraphale when he needed him; it was almost as if Crowley had learned to sense the angel’s distress or anxiety, however far apart they were, and that sense had only become honed throughout the centuries.
The demon had remained here when he’d been unceremoniously thrown to Earth instead of immediately returning to London to seek some semblance of comfort in the meaning of the spot; he thought being somewhere he’d so often shared with the angel could at least help him realign enough to draw his wings back in, and then he would be able to sleep through the worst of the pain and healing process. He hadn’t dared to hope that the angel would actually materialize, but now that he was here, Crowley couldn’t deny the absolutely beautiful relief washing through him.
The demon felt himself relax minutely as the angel’s presence surrounded him and his warm thumbs gently caressed his hands. He’d nearly pulled them away until he realized that it was Aziraphale reaching for him as he asked, “Crowley? What happened, my dear?”
Crowley immediately averted his eyes at the query, and he tried to play the movement off as a wince.
“Would rather not get into that at the moment, if you don’t mind,” he hoarsely whispered, dearly hoping that the angel would not push him for more information. He wasn't sure he could ever speak to Aziraphale about what he'd gone through; he was fairly certain the angel could not possibly bear it. He'd worry about it all later as long as Aziraphale didn't prompt him again. He breathed a small sigh of relief when the angel slowly nodded and murmured "of course" under his breath.
It seemed as though there wasn’t even a second thought as Aziraphale brought forth his glorious wings from the alternate plane, unfurled them and immediately began scrutinizing the largest of his flight feathers; he was quickly running his fingers over each of them and humming to himself softly.
“What are you doing?” Crowley weakly asked, his voice cracking just a bit. He still felt dazed and fuzzy with the ambient pain flowing through his wings and his body. His shame at Aziraphale witnessing his wings in this state felt dizzying and nauseating. The demon knew they were a tattered, broken mess, especially compared to the lush perfection of the angel’s own wings. He would’ve hidden them away if he was able, but he was too injured and too exhausted to even move them much, much less tuck them back into their dimension.
The angel’s voice was low and warm and calming; it was a balm to Crowley’s anxiety and fear as it floated over him in a gentle hush.
“Your flight feathers, my dear. I need to replace some of them as soon as possible. They may heal incorrectly if they aren’t sorted right away, and I cannot miracle them back." He said it as simply as if he was recalling a particularly excellent wine he'd had at some little bistro or something, but Crowley couldn't believe it.
When the angel finally plucked the first of his feathers from his wing, seemingly satisfied with its quality and size, it caught the sunlight and gleamed like a pearl. Crowley was seized with a sudden panic and urgency as he lurched towards the angel to try and stay his wrist.
“Don’t!” he rasped, and his voice shook in a way that Aziraphale hadn’t ever heard. “You can’t, angel. Who knows what could happen?” Crowley was struck with the terror that the angel sullying his heavenly wings for the sake of a lowly demon would somehow result in Aziraphale being punished by Heaven, or the truly worse, most sinister option; that Hell would find out about this and set horrific events in motion that the demon had worked so diligently to avoid these last few millennia.
Crowley couldn’t bear to also mention the automatic internal resistance he felt along with the knowledge that he was not deserving of any part of the angel. His trembling worsened, and he could see both the worry and determination etched in Aziraphale’s kind face. The angel began to speak once more, and his tone was so soft and soothing that Crowley felt tears spring to his eyes.
“My dear Crowley, I’m touched by your concern for me, but nothing will happen; I only want to help you, and there is nothing written proclaiming that I cannot offer you help when you need it.” He moved closer to Crowley, who instinctively leaned backward a bit, fear still shining in his brilliant golden eyes.
Aziraphale immediately stilled his movements in response to the demon’s backing away as he murmured, “I’m so sorry, my dear; no one will see the feathers, Crowley. They won’t be there forever, only until they’ve grown out, and then it will be nothing but a memory.”
The angel almost shyly met the demon’s eyes as he asked, “May I?” It took Crowley a moment to realize he was asking permission to touch his wings.
The demon couldn’t answer at first; he felt far too many emotions swirling within his chest as the question. Disbelief that Aziraphale was even asking permission, since Crowley had gotten very much used to being touched without care or discretion for so long; anxiety and embarrassment at someone so pure and lovely seeing the horrific state he was in; a rush of some sort of heat that slinked through him and was seemingly gone in a flash, and the ever present terror that anything he did could possibly bring the angel to harm.
Perhaps the most prevailing feeling of all was the nauseating sense of utter worthlessness that never left him; Crowley was afraid to even ponder that he deserved help from a heavenly being, was afraid that this was another test he would fail– allowing an angel to desecrate himself for his benefit. But Aziraphale’s clear blue eyes were so soft, his voice was so gentle, and the hands that he gestured toward the demon's wings looked impossibly airy as they stilled, waiting for an answer.
Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath, trying not to choke on it as the battle waged on within him. But something in the air had changed; maybe it even was coming from Aziraphale, but in that moment something within the demon shifted as he leaned forward a bit, brought his battered wings toward them both, and slowly nodded his head.
Aziraphale simply beamed as he whispered, “thank you, my dear,” and scooted to Crowley’s left side and began to work.
The touch of the angel’s hand was so gossamer at first that Crowley wasn’t sure if he had actually even touched him; perhaps it had been the wind. But then the demon felt the pads of angelic fingers ever so lightly running over the back of his wing, and Crowley tried and failed to suppress a gasp.
The sensitivity of his wings was not new knowledge, but he’d never felt anything like this; a touch full of care, full of healing and compassion. He could hear Aziraphale softly tutting as he began to carefully preen the feathers, rearranging some back into their rightful grouping, miracling the bent ones back to being straight.
Crowley was still shivering, still from pain and stress, but now there was a new facet to it all; the undeniable pleasure and relief running through him under the angel’s tender ministrations.
The warm intimacy of the exchange struck the demon so incredibly deeply that his dizziness returned for a moment. His heart raced helplessly at the close proximity of Aziraphale; Aziraphale, who Crowley was always eager to touch, who often reached out of his own accord to grasp Crowley's shoulder; who would nudge their knees together on their favorite park bench so easily and without anxiety, who would sometimes even reach up to brush the demon's hair out of his flushed face after they'd been drinking copiously for hours.
These small touches and exchanges were cherished by Crowley; he kept them close to his heart, and he revisited them often; maybe he even ached for more even if he'd never admit that out loud (or to himself). But now Aziraphale was almost pressed up against him, his lovely hands were running all over one of the most secret and intimate parts of the demon, and the angel was about to literally become part of him, and it was all awakening things that Crowley had been very nearly sure he'd put to bed for good.
The angel gradually applied a bit more pressure near the one joint of his wing, and Crowley let out a small strangled sound caught between a whimper and a gasp. He felt Aziraphale still immediately.
“Am I hurting you?” The angel’s voice was deeper and perhaps a bit gruffer than usual, Crowley thought- there was a tone to it that he’d not heard before; the words felt as if they were encased in a warm velvet.
The demon shook his head as he quietly replied, “not even if you tried,” the admission soft and under his breath.
He glanced up to find Aziraphale staring at him with a petal pink flush kissing his cheeks. There was that feeling again; that certain bit of electricity crackled in the air as their eyes locked on the other; the feeling that what was transpiring was deeply significant was impossible to ignore.
Crowley briefly was aware of another small miracle as the shafts of his flight feathers were realigned and presumably cleaned. Aziraphale glanced down and selected the base quill of the largest flight feather that was missing, and then met Crowley’s gaze again as he gently slid his own gleaming white feather into it.
This time Crowley whimpered aloud; an intense feeling of warmth and kindness and strength seemingly oozing from the white feather into his wings and his body. Every feather in his wing seemed to tingle with their approval as the heavenly feather joined their ranks. The demon chanced a look to the side to see Aziraphale’s handiwork.
The white feather’s rosy and pale blue sheen glimmered amongst the emerald and ruby flashes of Crowley’s inky black feathers. The contrast was striking. He felt a lump growing in his throat as he stared in wonder at the feather, so tightly nestled within his own.
The angel had given the demon a literal part of himself, and Crowley found himself wondering if he was dreaming. The beauty of the gesture and the result rendered him completely awed. Aziraphale would now be with him, always; even after the feathers would grow out, that angelic essence would remain, and it took every ounce of whatever strength Crowley had to keep from breaking down at the realization.
He usually kept such a brutally strong hold on his emotions; he disguised anxiety with snark, regularly came across as flippant when really he felt too vulnerable, adopted exaggerated accents and gestures whenever Aziraphale did something that made his heart beat uncomfortably fast. Now, however, the demon found that he could not temper all of the enormous emotions building and clashing within him now.
Aziraphale was also gazing at the new feather amongst the old, the expression on his face a bit hard for Crowley to decipher in his fading pain and growing euphoria. The angel’s pupils were blown, his plush lips were parted a bit, and the flush had become even more pronounced on his cheeks; it was deeping into a lovely rosy shade. He delicately stroked the feather and the surrounding ones, seemingly admiring his work.
Crowley closed his eyes as the sweet humming that buzzed through him continued to strengthen as his pain continued to blissfully fade, and he heard himself whisper, “thank you, angel”. He could feel himself relaxing even more; he was almost melting as a gently simmering warmth spread throughout his wings into his body.
Aziraphale brought his hand down to rest lightly on Crowley’s, who nearly flinched away, but didn’t. The angel could hear the demon’s sharp intake of breath at the touch, and he said in what he hoped was a comforting tone, “of course, my darling. I’d take away any and all of your pain, if I was able.”
The admission had tumbled from his lips unchecked, and the angel silently worried if he’d said too much. He never quite knew where the line was between the two of them, and he often feared that he would cross it one day. But Crowley merely turned his own hand upward so that their palms lightly touched. The angel's heart raced again for reasons he couldn’t name, and it was with great difficulty that he pulled his hand away and continued inspecting his own feathers for another donor.
‘Darling’. That was new. Aziraphale had never called him that, and Crowley found that, whoever help him (God? Satan?), he really, really liked it. He'd always adored when Aziraphale referred to him as "my dear" and all its variations; my dear boy, my dear fellow, so on and so forth. Always so comfortable, so casual, but always warm, always genuine and never mocking. He was sure that he’d only ever been called darling by him before this moment, and it was with a shaky sense of pride that he hadn’t been seized by panic at the endearment from the angel.
The demon felt his own face continue to burn as Aziraphale kept working, and each time a new feather was placed, the demon couldn't stop himself from whimpering even as he tried to repress any and all vocalizations. The sensation was indescribable, it was as if bolts of ecstasy were channeled from each added feather and flowed through his entire being. The fact that it was Aziraphale tending to him...Crowley had to bite his lip hard to keep from moaning outright.
After the third time, though, Aziraphale leant down to murmur in Crowley's ear after seemingly picking up on the latter's insecurity at making any sound; "it's alright, darling; I want to hear you.”
His breath was warm and his voice was so very low, so very…sensual. Perhaps even erotic, if Crowley was being honest with himself (or was this an exercise in wishful thinking?). He'd never consciously dream of Aziraphale saying such things in that tone of voice to anyone, let alone him. He hadn't dared to dream of that, really. The demon vaguely realized that his pain had completely faded and had been replaced with serenity, bliss, and an almost frightening, overwhelming arousal. It was as if every nerve in his body and wings were smoldering, and the pulsing, heavy weight of the desire he felt nearly undid him right there and then.
Before the demon could even begin to process any of this, Aziraphale placed the fourth feather, and this time Crowley did let out a shaky moan; he was no longer hindered by fear or shame, and if he hadn't already been sitting on the ground, Aziraphale’s answering groan, still mostly stifled but definitely audible, would've knocked the demon over.
"Good," whispered the angel as he softly stroked the new feather, "always so very good for me."
Crowley tried to scoff, but it ended up coming out as a strangled sob as he fiercely shook his head; he was completely caught off guard by the tears welling in his eyes from the praise, and fuck, Crowley knew in that moment what he'd likely known for centuries and conveniently tried to ignore- he wanted Aziraphale.
He wanted everything and anything, anything the angel could give him, whatever he'd offer, and the ache to hear those praising words again was nearly unbearable. It had been so long since he felt good, since he felt worthy, and the clarity in the moment that he only wanted to feel worthy of this particular angel and no one and nothing else was staggering.
The warmth in the demon’s chest rivaled that which he felt when he indulged in the finest scotch and the most expensive champagne, and Crowley knew he was drunk on the angel's praise and tender touch as well as that undertone to his words; it was so assured, so very steady. There was an unshakeable certainty that was reflected in Aziraphale's voice as he insisted that Crowley was something good; it was as if it was an indisputable fact.
He had been so certain that deep down, Aziraphale would always see him as Fallen, that even if he joked about Crowley being evil, he actually believed it. It was partly why Crowley never allowed himself to hope for anything between them to evolve past a tenuous friendship. After all, he himself accepted that he was broken, that he was bad– to hear the angel actually insist the opposite was nothing short of earth shattering.
Aziraphale had heard the choked cry shatter from the demon's lips and immediately surrounded them both with his own wings as he wrapped his arms around the demon. "I've got you," he muttered as he pressed a very light kiss to Crowley's fiery hair, "I'm here. As long as you want me. And I will tell you how good you are as often as you'll let me, my dear. Until you believe me." He now was soothingly stroking Crowley's wings all over as the demon shook with what the angel suspected were suppressed tears.
Aziraphale’s heart simply could not handle Crowley's reactions to his words and his touches; he was nearly coming apart in the angel’s arms simply because Aziraphale had told him he was good. The angel been a bit startled at the strong reaction; he’d not expected it at all. He'd tried to keep his words light, but oh, the pleasure he felt at Crowley letting go as he absorbed Aziraphale’s reassurance was so strong that the angel was a bit bowled over by it.
He'd never seen Crowley remotely close to this– so vulnerable, so intensely emotional, so completely open. The veneer that would range wildly from sarcasm to teasing to melodrama and beyond was seemingly nowhere to be found in this moment. The entire scenario was proving to be so emotionally charged, and the intimacy was overwhelming, as was the underlying sensuality and exchange of trust staggering. Neither angel nor demon could have anticipated it.
Aziraphale slowly pulled his wings back and brought his hands up to cup Crowley's tear streaked face and held him almost painfully tenderly. He smiled when Crowley opened his eyes to return the angel’s gaze as his lips too slowly quirked upward. The demon bent his head forward so their foreheads touched, and Aziraphale answered by stroking his cheeks lightly with his thumbs. Both were quiet for what seemed like hours before Aziraphale softly asked, "feeling better?"
Crowley took a deep breath and let it out as he nodded, his body now completely pain free; his wings were slightly sore but whole once more, and were supported by the feathers so selflessly shared with him. The cresting wave of emotion threatened to overflow as he breathed, "thank you, angel." He didn't dare say more, knowing that the dam would once again break if he tried to express any of the things he so desperately wanted to.
Aziraphale's smile grew impossibly soft as he replied, "thank you, my dear. Thank you for allowing me to help you and for trusting me," he brought a hand up to gently card through Crowley's hair, their foreheads still so sweetly leaning against the other. The angel did not elaborate; he feared it would overwhelm the exhausted demon whose emotions nearly vibrated between them.
He hoped that perhaps Crowley could feel even a little bit of the pride he felt, could feel how privileged, how truly honored Aziraphale was to have been allowed to care for the demon. He tried to force away the uneasiness and burning curiosity about just what had thrown the demon into such a state, but could not bear the thought of pushing Crowley for answers at the moment.
Instead, Aziraphale turned his lips upward and pressed a gentle kiss to the demon's forehead, and he was rewarded with a soft sigh. The angel took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of Crowley, something caught between clove and black pepper, a fevered hint of something smoky and clear like the night sky.
And he ached.
Maybe someday, they'd be able to talk about it. Maybe there would come a time when Crowley would open up to Aziraphale, and vice versa. Maybe they'd be able to speak their minds without fear, and hopefully they would find the strength to share and validate all that was between them.
Just not today.