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Title: Grooming
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: G
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley preslash
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Aziraphale had never seen Crowley's wings before.
AN: Written for my Trope Bingo table for the prompt 'WingFic'.
He’s never seen Crowley’s wings before.
He had known, intellectually, that they were there. Has even wondered what they looked like after the Fall; what they had looked like before it, and if the patterns that were unique to every angel were still present on one fallen from grace. But before today, he hasn’t seen them.
He can see them now. They’re a sorry sight, draped out across the desert plain. Crowley appears to be trying to groom them, but on his own it is an impossible task. Even if he could reach every feather, they are too filthy and tattered for his attempts to make any difference. They’re so bad that Aziraphale can’t even tell what colour they’re supposed to be and he feels a swell of something – not pity, because that’s the start of a slippery slope – but something in his chest.
He reaches out and touches.
Crowley jumps, startled, and twists around to reveal venomous fangs and glowing yellow eyes, but Aziraphale ignores him. Just raises a handful of sand and begins to scrub. When Crowley lets him, he takes it as a victory.
It takes hours – days, really – to finish. By then, his hands are covered in oil from the glans at the base of each wing, and the desert is scattered with broken, shredded feathers. The revealed plumage is unfamiliar – he is oddly glad that he hadn’t known Crowley before the Fall – but it is soft and warm and beautiful. Crowley’s wings are as black as his hair, for the most part, but each feather is tipped with a brilliant shade of gold.
Even with the job done, Aziraphale doesn’t stop. He has…he has missed grooming. Here, on earth, he only has himself to do it and he’s under no illusions that his wings are probably as bad as Crowley’s were. It is an intimate thing, for angels; if Heaven noticed him doing this, he’s in for some awkward questions, but the truth is that he knows Crowley far better than he knows any of his fellow angels, these days.
He doesn’t expect the favour to be returned, so he lingers as long as he can on the smaller, finer feathers close to the shoulder joint, before smoothing his hands downwards one final time and sitting back on his heels.
There’s an awkward silence as what just happened finally sinks in. Then Crowley clears his throat. “Thanks, Angel,” he says. The gentle tone of his voice says that he actually means it, and when he glances back over his shoulder there’s a look in his eyes that makes Aziraphale’s stomach swoop. He folds his hands in his lap, twisting his fingers together and offers the demon a weak smile.
“Don’t mention it,” he says weakly.
Crowleys wings flex and shift, the gold glinting and the black shimmering to blue and green in the sunlight. He flares them to their full span before folding them away and letting them fade from the mortal plane.
“I won’t then,” he replies, but there’s a crooked little smile on his lips that says that he definitely won’t forget.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: G
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley preslash
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Aziraphale had never seen Crowley's wings before.
AN: Written for my Trope Bingo table for the prompt 'WingFic'.
He’s never seen Crowley’s wings before.
He had known, intellectually, that they were there. Has even wondered what they looked like after the Fall; what they had looked like before it, and if the patterns that were unique to every angel were still present on one fallen from grace. But before today, he hasn’t seen them.
He can see them now. They’re a sorry sight, draped out across the desert plain. Crowley appears to be trying to groom them, but on his own it is an impossible task. Even if he could reach every feather, they are too filthy and tattered for his attempts to make any difference. They’re so bad that Aziraphale can’t even tell what colour they’re supposed to be and he feels a swell of something – not pity, because that’s the start of a slippery slope – but something in his chest.
He reaches out and touches.
Crowley jumps, startled, and twists around to reveal venomous fangs and glowing yellow eyes, but Aziraphale ignores him. Just raises a handful of sand and begins to scrub. When Crowley lets him, he takes it as a victory.
It takes hours – days, really – to finish. By then, his hands are covered in oil from the glans at the base of each wing, and the desert is scattered with broken, shredded feathers. The revealed plumage is unfamiliar – he is oddly glad that he hadn’t known Crowley before the Fall – but it is soft and warm and beautiful. Crowley’s wings are as black as his hair, for the most part, but each feather is tipped with a brilliant shade of gold.
Even with the job done, Aziraphale doesn’t stop. He has…he has missed grooming. Here, on earth, he only has himself to do it and he’s under no illusions that his wings are probably as bad as Crowley’s were. It is an intimate thing, for angels; if Heaven noticed him doing this, he’s in for some awkward questions, but the truth is that he knows Crowley far better than he knows any of his fellow angels, these days.
He doesn’t expect the favour to be returned, so he lingers as long as he can on the smaller, finer feathers close to the shoulder joint, before smoothing his hands downwards one final time and sitting back on his heels.
There’s an awkward silence as what just happened finally sinks in. Then Crowley clears his throat. “Thanks, Angel,” he says. The gentle tone of his voice says that he actually means it, and when he glances back over his shoulder there’s a look in his eyes that makes Aziraphale’s stomach swoop. He folds his hands in his lap, twisting his fingers together and offers the demon a weak smile.
“Don’t mention it,” he says weakly.
Crowleys wings flex and shift, the gold glinting and the black shimmering to blue and green in the sunlight. He flares them to their full span before folding them away and letting them fade from the mortal plane.
“I won’t then,” he replies, but there’s a crooked little smile on his lips that says that he definitely won’t forget.
