Re: prompts. I'm a sucker for wings. :)
(I still have a migraine so I’m using my phone. Please excuse any random misspellings from autocorrect or formatting issues.)
Here is a list of 2 facts:
1. Demons have markedly better groomed wings than angels, and
It is the second fact in which Crowley believes God’s cruelty is shown. Crowley remembers the way his wings cracked under his siblings hands. The way he’d fought, begging and screaming, as hollow bones crumpled like paper. The way he’d asked for mercy under merciless hearts. The way he’d begged for forgiveness as he was toppled over the edge. The way his wings had twisted further during the Fall until he landed on his back, the light of Heaven nothing more than a distant star overhead.
(Sauntered vaguely downward indeed.)
In six thousand years Crowley has gotten used to the ache-or, he hasn’t but he refuses to say that his wings still feel heavy and useless and unendingly painful. In the early days he’d let other demons groom him. They all had, back then. The one little bit of comfort they found solace in amongst the mold and the cold and brittle, brutal dark. Six thousand years later Crowley prefers to do it himself, the bits of it he can do, anyway. There are parts of his wings he’ll never be able to reach and he’s made peace with that.
Aziraphale had tried to help once, back in the early days right after the Garden but before there had been cities and people. He’d made it so far as touching two silky black feathers between his fingers before Crowley had rounded on him with a hiss.
Aziraphale stared at him, wide-eyed, hands tilted upward as though in surrender. “Sorry,” He said, “terribly sorry, I just wanted-“
“I don’t care what you wanted-“
“To help!” Aziraphale’s face scrunched up, “Your feathers are all twisted!”
“I don’t want your help!” Crowley snapped back. He knew they were twisted. He knew they were ugly and burnt and damaged as well, he didn’t need someone else’s hand in there making everything worse.
For what is was worth, Aziraphale never did try to touch Crowley’s wings again. Not for a few thousand years. Not until after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. Not until Aziraphale had Crowley in his bed, loose-limbed and pliant. Lovesick and kissdrunk, preciously sleepy-eyed head pillowed against Aziraphale’s chest.
Crowley’s fingers dug into soft flesh, rubbing firm little circles along Aziraphale’s side.
Aziraphale’s hand petted over his hair, squeezed the back of his neck, passed gently over his spine and rested delicately between his shoulder blades. “Do they still hurt?”
“S’what still hurt?”
“Your wings, dearest.”
Crowley’s hand dug a little harder into Aziraphale’s side, his shoulders tensing beneath that gentle hand. “Don’t-“
“I won’t,” Aziraphale’s lips find the crown of his head, “I wouldn’t.”
“I love them,” Aziraphale admitted, “I love all of you. I would love all of you, if you would allow me.”
Crowley closed his eyes, willed his own grip to soften, his shoulders to relax. “Don’t see why you need to touch them for all that.” He mumbled.
“I just want to help.” Aziraphale said, “I have only ever wanted to help.”
Crowley blew out a breath. Tucked his face into Aziraphale’s neck. Felt steady hands touch him, hold him, cradle him. “They’re broken.” Crowley told him, felt kisses rain down on the top of his head and side of his face. “They’re ugly.”
“They’re yours.” Aziraphale said. “My darling boy, what are you afraid of?”
You, Crowley thought, Being hurt by you. Hurting you. You deciding I’m too broken to love. You deciding I’m too broken to fix.
Crowley shrugged as best as he was able.
“I love you,” Aziraphale said, “I won’t hurt you.”
“Love you,” Crowley replied. He kissed Aziraphale’s collarbone, the dip of his throat. He let his wings expand in a burst of feathers and agony.
Aziraphale’s fingers felt like a soothing balm to a burn, carding gently through stiff feathers and skimming across scars and ragged edges. “Thank you,” Aziraphale breathed, his hands buried deep into dark plumes, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Aziraphale’s love, bright and all consuming and undeniable, flooded over him. Crowley took a shuddering breath and pressed kisses like stars into his torso.
Crowley remembered what it felt like to have hands on his wings with the intent to hurt, to have a hand on his heart to rip all the Love and Heavenly Grace from him.
In Aziraphale’s arms he learns what’s its like to have that Love restored. To have that Grace and Mercy thrust back upon him. To have that ache of loss soothed, just a little. Just enough that Crowley, wet-cheeked and bleary-eyed, pulls Aziraphale down for a kiss.
