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kanna_opheliaCollections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2023
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Published: 2023-06-19
Words: 3,448
Chapters: 1/1
Charred Feathers
Summary
The wings burst through, a flurry of feathers and ripping fabric.
“Damn. Thought they’d be enough room. That was a Tom Ford under-vest, would have cost me eighty quid if I’d actually bought it.”
“Of course you stole it, you vile fiend,” Aziraphale said automatically, staring at Crowley’s well-groomed wings. They were black, and tidy, but it wasn’t a pure, midnight black. More a very dark, almost shabby grey, for all their beautiful condition. He was beginning to have a horrible suspicion about those wings. He reached out, and very gently brushed his fingertips through one, not letting any healing power through yet.
“Made it. Y’know.” Crowley mimed snapping his fingers.
“You’re wearing knock-off flannels?” Aziraphale demanded, tone high with outrage. He let his other hand come to the other wing, stepping closer, as Crowley snorted with laughter.
Aziraphale had been right. Crowley’s feathers were smooth and perfect and undamaged, and at the same time, they were charred black by fire.
Charred Feathers
They walked back from the Ritz. They had been chatting for hours, but now they were quiet, in the glow of good wine and good companionship and just being able to be, comfortably and openly, side-by side. Like human friends. Like human… Well. That was a fragile hope, built on centuries of interpreting sidelong looks and smirks and almost meaningful tones of voice, and “my best friend” was something, “my best friend” was a miracle. Anything else was still too delicate a hope to prod at and risk bruising the petals.
Aziraphale blinked at the splendour of the light. A new world. Well, technically it was the same, only something had ended, back there, and in the new world Crowley sauntered openly by his side, none of his half-wary, half-protective circling needed. No need to be on edge in case they were seen or heard together, and Aziraphale shamed and scolded and Crowley <em>harmed</em> because of their friendship. A new world indeed.
They stopped in the middle of the pedestrian scramble of Oxford Circus, as if they both realised this was where they should turn off, or solidify into an invitation. The crowds of people crossing the road parted around them like a stream around an immovable rock, and that was how Aziraphale felt. He was not really to let Crowley go just yet. There was no reason, anymore, he should. Except that he should not assume, having had to be the one to push Crowley away so many times, after the way Crowley had pushed him aside, that Crowley would want to stay by his side all the time. Should not presume on radiantly fond looks over lunch, on a hand briefly brushing the back of his when he leaned over the table. They were on their own side, but Crowley had plenty of people to fraternise with.
The lights obligingly did not change as they stood stock still, facing other. Aziraphale really wished he could read Crowley’s mind. He could read human minds sometimes, when he bothered, or at least get the shape of them, but Crowley’s was dark to him.
Crowley made one of his expressive silence-filling noises, and gave his shoulders an odd slithering wiggle. One Aziraphale had seen before, and assumed was something serpentine. Now, for no reason, he flashed to standing in the desert outside Eden with the Antichrist, his wings spreading in the sun, taking in the pure holy light, while Crowley…
“Angel, I—“ started Crowley, and at the same moment, Aziraphale said, “Crowley, are your wings all right?”
Crowley stopped what he was saying and blinked, a rare event visible only by eyes that could see through dark glasses. “Hnnuh? Yeah. I mean, aching a bit, but nothing new.”
“They hurt?” Aziraphale said sharply.
“Yeah?”
“Mine never ache.”
“Yeah.” Half-amused, half frustrated, this time, as if Aziraphale should have realised all along, as if this difference between Fallen and Unfallen should have been obvious to him since Crowley spread his dark wings in Eden.
Perhaps it should have been. Aziraphale reached out hurriedly and grasped Crowley’s hand, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Come home. I’ll rub them.”
“You’ll… what?”
“I’m a healer, Crowley. I can help you.”
“Don’t think it works that way. Opposite natures. Might explode.”
“I don’t think those rules apply to us anymore, if they ever did. And besides. If nothing else, I can massage them.”
The Adam's apple in Crowley’s throat bobbed up and down. It was oddly fascinating.
“Yeah,” Crowley said, for the third time, and this time it was a little hoarse. “Okay.”
*****
Aziraphale’s beloved Gillows library chair was spacious enough for Crowley to slot his long legs under the arms and sit comfortably straddled on it, leaning against the back, because Aziraphale sternly expected it to be. He wasn’t taking any backchat from chairs when Crowley was in pain.
Crowley had shrugged off his jacket and the shirt, and there was no reason the sight of his bare shoulders through the wide armholes of his vest, the hairs on his pale arms, should affect Aziraphale at all. He’d worn that body himself. No reason to feel nervous about touching it, and in any case, he was there to try and help Crowley’s wings, not fondle his upper arms. Crowley had been oddly quiet and quiescent, and his shoulders were tense. Perhaps Aziraphale should have let go of his hand before they reached the shop. It had been a terrible imposition.
“Sure about this, Aziraphale?”
“Of course.” He tilted his chin upwards. “Why shouldn’t I help my best friend?”
Crowley’s posture relaxed a little, and Aziraphale fancied he could imagine a slight smile on that expressive face. The wings burst through, a flurry of feathers and ripping fabric.
“Damn. Thought they’d be enough room. That was a Tom Ford under-vest, would have cost me eighty quid if I’d actually bought it.”
“Of course you stole it, you vile fiend,” Aziraphale said automatically, staring at Crowley’s well-groomed wings. They were black, and tidy, but it wasn’t a pure, midnight black. More a very dark, almost shabby grey, for all their beautiful condition. He was beginning to have a horrible suspicion about those wings. He reached out, and very gently brushed his fingertips through one, not letting any healing power through yet.
“Made it. Y’know.” Crowley mimed snapping his fingers.
“You’re wearing knock-off flannels?” Aziraphale demanded, tone high with outrage. He let his other hand come to the other wing, stepping closer, as Crowley snorted with laughter.
Aziraphale had been right. Crowley’s feathers were smooth and perfect and undamaged, and at the same time, they were charred black by fire.
Crowley didn’t talk about Falling much. When he did, sometimes he talked about having to take the lifts that smelled like piss at the back of the building down, and sometimes he talked about a million year dive into a pool of lava. Of course, there had been no lava then, or planet to revolve around a sun marking years, or even abstract concepts like “down” and “time”. They hadn’t even had wings. But just like form shaped function, function sought form, and the only real guides they had once Adam and Eve were made was were how humans saw the world. The Hell Aziraphale had visited only yesterday had been both a leaking office basement and an eternal pit of fire and something else, just like Heaven was airy open-space offices and a city of gold and pearl and a garden and…
Aziraphale was aware his mind was skittering as randomly as his fingertips through the feathers, because it was unbearable to come back to the idea that Crowley had burned.
“Did it hurt?” he asked, his fingers sinking in deeper, almost angrily.
Crowley did him the courtesy of not pretending to misunderstand. “Still does. Every minute.”
“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale pulled his hands away.
“S’alright, angel. Feels better when you touch.” Crowley’s shoulders were turning an interesting shade of red under his freckles.
Well. That was even more permission, if he needed it, and a goal. Aziraphale slid his fingers back in, seeking individual feathers this time. His fingers wanted to tremble, but he ordered his corporation to behave. There was no place for physical signs of nervousness when Crowley’s suffering was at stake. He ran one finger of each hand down a rachish, finer than porcelain and stronger than bone, and Crowley shuddered as Aziraphale’s other fingers stroked the silky barbs. Funny. The thought arrived from a distant space deep in Aziraphale’s heads. Birds groomed each other’s heads but never groomed each other’s wings; too intimate, he supposed. He’d read it somewhere, or seen it on a documentary. Angels never groomed each other’s wings, and certainly never groomed demon wings, but here Crowley was, trusting him entirely, letting his fingers sink into the vulnerable, delicate, perfect-looking, damaged feathers.
Aziraphale could feel the fire and the pain as it had manifested within the intricate structure of each feather, as if his empathy was drawing the burning into himself. His throat was tight with tenderness and a kind of deep, cold fury. His fingers moved with a newfound purpose, traversing the wings' surface with light strokes. They had burned Crowley, and right now, Aziraphale didn’t even care if Heaven or Hell bore ultimate responsibility for the burning.
He’d thought that those who did wrong deserved to be punished, back in the beginning. He hadn’t liked the thought, even then. Hadn’t liked the War, the Fall, the thought of humans trapped in Hell for being made flawed; but that was the purpose, that was the plan, and the point of ineffability was that there was no point wondering about it. You wouldn’t know what She knew; that was the entire point. He had to remember that even when he met humans, remember that the choice and the testing was ineffable and right and his purpose and Crowley’s purpose and all to the ultimate good.
Bugger all that. Hurting Crowley’s wings was wrong. If no one else would fix it, Aziraphale would.
He focused his power, and curled his fingers deep.
Crowley’s breath caught, sharp in his throat.
“Did I hurt you?” There were feathers between Aziraphale’s fingers, curling up, and he fancied they looked darker and brighter all at one. Just a little blacker, but with a hint of iridescence that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps it was his imagination, and just that he so badly wanted to feel he was having an effect, not hurting Crowley worse for no reason.
“Nah. S’okay. Just tender.”
He was lying. Aziraphale knew that. He knew this demon like the back of his hand, and Crowley was lying through his teeth. He told himself that was acceptable. Lying was a matter of choice as well, and they were making their own choices now. Still, his voice wobbled a little as he said, “Promise me you’ll tell me if you need me to stop.” He stopped, tried to inject more levity than instability into his tone. “Not that the word of a demon means much.”
“Nah, not me. Demon of my word, me.” He could hear the smile in the voice, but also the wince. “Promise.”
It was wrong, Aziraphale realised sharply. He shouldn’t be hurting Crowley, and Crowley shouldn’t need to lie to him. They were past all that, past empty words and double meanings and deceits, the agonisingly play of advance and retreat. They had hurt Crowley. Aziraphale’s anger reared up. Crowley was no angel, quite literally, and his slippery cleverness and mischief would have thrived in the cold light of Heaven, but that was no excuse for what they had done to him. They had deliberately dimmed any possibility of turning to good in his gentle heart, given him no choice but to follow evil, burned him…
He was the one burning Crowley now. Aziraphale pulled his hand away, feeling Crowley stiffen with anxiety. Anger was not the way to heal. Healing was about… love…
Aziraphale had shown more courage in the last eleven years than he had ever known himself capable of possessing. He could be brave now. He took a deep breath, and looked openly at Crowley, or what he could see of him. The press of his spine against his skin, the finely muscled arms, the flaming hair, the graceful curve of his back, the lean strong thighs, the spread of wings. Human-like, serpentine, demonic, with the remnants of his angelic stock. Crowley. His friend for six thousand years. The friend who had never been able to leave him without coming back. Who had driven through fire for him, had walked into Heaven with the angels who had struck him down for him, who had trusted him to sort out all the nonsense with the Antichrist and Gabriel and Beelzebub and then walk into Hell to protect him.
He would protect him. He would love him.
Maybe he was a rubbish angel in some ways, but he knew about being a guardian, and most of all, with Crowley sitting vulnerable before him, he knew about love.
Aziraphale ran his hand down the bend of one wing, slid his fingers through the coverts, slide down to the long flight feathers and let them run through his fingers. Crowley sighed, like a rather romantic teakettle letting off steam. With renewed determination, Aziraphale resumed his careful ministrations, focusing his power with even more precision. The angel's touch became more tender, his fingertips gently caressing each grey feather. The glow of healing energy intensified, enveloping Crowley's wings in a warm embrace. Aziraphale gritted his teeth, willing himself to bear the burden of Crowley's pain.
The feathers began to ripple through his fingers the way a rainbow would, if a rainbow was black.
Crowley's breath hitched, his voice strained. “Sorry, angel. It’s a lot.”
“Do you want me to stop? I can't bear to hurt you any further. You must tell me if it's too much."
Crowley let out a weak chuckle, though it was tinged with discomfort. "You really think I'd let you off that easy, angel? I trust you. Always have. Always will."
Aziraphale's hands faltered for a moment. He’d known, he really had known Crowley trusted him, but hearing it said aloud was still a shock. Perhaps it was the new world, or perhaps that Crowley had turned away. He fought to regain his composure and concentrate on his task.
“Besides. Doesn’t hurt. Not exactly. It’s just… a lot, that’s all.” There was an edge of concern in Crowley’s voice. “Not used to anyone touching them but myself. Not used to being touched at all, really.”
“I thought part of your job was engaging in decadent demonic orgies.” The prim disapproval in his voice wasn’t even acting; it came automatically, with an unpleasant stab of jealousy.
Crowley snorted. “No such luck.” That was a relief, Aziraphale admitted to himself. “But it’s… like I said, it’s a lot. Aziraphale, are you sure you’re okay with that?”
“Of course I am.” He stroked his hands down a particularly graceful flight feather, and he wasn’t imagining it, it gleamed. “I’d do anything.” The sincerity was painful and embarrassing, but there was no judgement in Crowley’s spine, no mocking twisted mouth and yellow eyes. Just his friend, his most beloved and truest friend, open to his touch.
He continued his work, the feathers gradually responding to his healing touch, gaining a darker shade with a glimmer of iridescence. A sense of relief mingled with guilt washed over him.
He leaned closer, his voice laden with remorse. "Crowley, I'm so sorry for all you've endured. I wish I could undo the pain you've suffered."
Crowley's response was barely a whisper, but Aziraphale caught every word. "We all have our scars. We’re on our own side now. That's what matters."
“Always.” It took every ounce of energy he could spare from the healing to keep his voice light. On another plane, Aziraphale's own wings trembled slightly.
Time began to flow like honey, nothing left but the wings becoming shining, healed. Look how beautiful you are, he thought dreamily. Do you even know? You’re a vain thing, but I don’t suppose you would apply the word to yourself. You’d call yourself stylish or fashionable or ‘cool’, but never beautiful, lovely, pretty…
“Sweet angel.”
Aziraphale almost paused. He couldn’t have heard that. Among the words Crowley never applied in general was “sweet”, unless he was complaining about an over-honeyed dormouse he’d just swallowed whole.
“Sweet.” It was barely a mutter, groggy and drenched in relaxation. The poor dear, Aziraphale forced himself to think, despite the shivers under his skin. Crowley had no idea what he was saying. The honourable thing to do was clear out from his mind everything Crowley said in this state. Besides, even if Crowley thought he was sweet, Crowley despised sweet people. Easy to manipulate, he said. It didn’t mean he cared in that particular way.
“Love you.”
All right. There was no way he could forget that. But it would be dishonourable to use it as an advantage. He had to wait until Crowley was in his right mind, even though his heart was suddenly hammering so hard he thought a human one would explode. He set himself to channelling healing energy into the median coverts. They were almost too bright for his eyes now.
“Love you so much,” Crowley murmured. “Sweet Aziraphale.”
The wings were shimmering. He should stop, now. Wake Crowley up, show him his handiwork. There was time for everything. He dug his fingers deep into the bend of the wing.
“Angel, stop!” Crowley shouted.
Aziraphale froze in guilt. “I hurt you.”
“No.. No, angel, you never…”
“Then I shouldn’t have listened, I should have stopped…”
“Listened? Aziraphale, what the he—what on earth did I say?”
That was impossible. He couldn’t say to Crowley’s back You said I was sweet; he couldn’t throw you said you love me like an accusation. “Nothing you really meant, I suppose.”
“What? No, wait.” Crowley tried to drag one leg out from under the library chair arm and turn to face Aziraphale at the same time. There was a brief, unequal struggle between demon and chair, wings flapping wildly and creating a minor gale, loose papers flying across the backroom. Then Crowley collapsed on his back, the chair halfway collapsed on him, staring at ceiling.
“Crowley, that is a genuine Gillows! Do you know how hard they are to find now?” It was the last thing Aziraphale meant to say under the circumstances, but it came out anyway, as if a part of his brain was running automatically while he stared at the front of Crowley’s trousers and realised just what he had meant by “a lot”.
There was apparently enough blood left in Crowley’s system to leave his cheeks flushed red, although Aziraphale couldn’t figure out how. “What did I say?” he asked the ceiling.
“Just. Just the usual things.” All right, so maybe they could still lie to each other. Did it even count when Crowley clearly didn’t believe him? And oh, Crowley’s wings were spread out under him, black and glossy and beautiful. “Do your wings still hurt?”
“Nah. Thank you. That’s…” Crowley turned to look at him at last, with bare eyes, flooded with yellow. “Still got miracles left in you, huh? Should have asked you thousands of years ago. Although I suppose someone would have noticed.”
All right. So they obviously weren't going to discuss the strain Crowley’s poor fly was under. That was for the best. A really awkward situation. He should give Crowley some time to himself, and to admire his beautiful healed wings, and then perhaps they could go out to dinner again.
He waved a hand, magically detaching Crowley from the chair, and then extended the same hand to help Crowley to his feet. Crowley grasped it, and somehow the pulling didn’t happen, and instead they stared at each other, angel bending, Crowley sitting, hands clasped firmly between them.
“I believe you said you love me,” Aziraphale said straight into Crowley’s face.
“Yeah. That sounds about right,” said Crowley, and kissed him, all eager mouth and tongue and teeth and it was bliss.
Some later, Aziraphale looked at the black wings curved above him. Not burned, now. Warm. Protective. Crowley had made a kind of cocoon around them, their own private world, safe and sound, and it was probably mostly love and only about thirty three point three percent Crowley taking the chance to admire his own wings.
“I wish you hadn’t hurt for so long,” Aziraphale said, and didn’t mean just the wings.
“Wasn’t exactly fun for you, either, was it?”
Aziraphale thought of oysters in Rome, crepes in Paris, long nights of drunken rambling conversation. Crowley doing his best to be maternal in a tight skirt. “I don’t know. A lot of it was rather fun.”
“Huh.”
There was something Aziraphale had forgotten to say. What was it again?
“I love you with all my heart and for all eternity, Crowley.” Yes, that was it.
Crowley made a face. “Soppy.”
“Not soppy.” His heart was blooming out, and he had never felt more powerful, more angelic. “Sweet. You said so.”
“I didn’t.”
“Sweet angel, you said.” Aziraphale pursed his lips primly.
“Must’ve been thinking of Sandal—no, I can’t do it.” Crowley’s lips were trembling with laughter as they met his, and somehow that was the best thing of all. Aziraphale’s own wings came out as he turned deeper into the kiss, and black and white feathers mingled together, until there was only light.
