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The first time Aziraphale sees Crowley’s wings — his true wings — isn’t until the 1600s.
They’re having a good-natured argument about whether they should intervene in this little fire that seems to be getting rather out of control in London when Crowley gets distracted and drops the illusion he’s been holding up all these years.
Aziraphale sucks in a breath. Crowley’s wings are ragged, worn almost bald in spots, heavily matted in others. The black feathers are clumped into coarse knots and dry, itchy-looking masses. Aziraphale knows the irritation and discomfort of a single misaligned wing tip; he can hardly imagine how infuriating it must be for Crowley to live with this shredded mess of cracked feathers and scarred, shiny skin.
Angel or demon, it’s simple to hide your form. You can appear as a human or an animal as easy as breathing, and Crowley has always taken care that his wings appear to be healthy and normal. He is not, after all, without vanity. But that glamor doesn’t change what is underneath. And what is beneath the illusion is ugly and painful.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale chides, fussiness hiding genuine upset. “The state of your wings. Honestly, it’s a wonder they haven’t fallen off. Here, let me -”
Crowley actually flinches when Aziraphale reaches for his wings.
Angels are in essence pack creatures, is the thing. It’s hard to groom a wing that’s eight feet long and attached to your back, so they help each other out. Preening and grooming each other’s feathers is as natural as shaking hands in heaven. Even Gabriel and Michael, as frustrating as they may be, wouldn’t think of leaving a meeting with Aziraphale without checking his flight feathers and aligning them neatly.
But Crowley was an angel once too, and he’s been on his own for a very long time.
“Let me, please,” Aziraphale says again, softly, and Crowley narrows his yellow eyes, scowls, and turns his back, spreading out the mess of his wings. Aziraphale reaches out with great care, taking his time, adjusting and reordering all the feathers that can be saved, removing those which can’t be as gently as he can. As he works, he chatters about this exciting new invention the human have now, a microscope, for seeing tiny things, isn’t that remarkable? What will they think of next?
After a few minutes Crowley’s shoulders loosen, and his wings droop, and eventually they soften in Aziraphale’s careful hands. Aziraphale touches them with the reverence due to something holy.
He makes a point of grooming Crowley’s wings every time they meet, and he makes an effort to meet at least somewhat regularly. It’s not, all things considered, a hardship.
With careful maintenance, it only takes a few years before Crowley’s wings are back to their former luster and sheen. One night Crowley pops in for a jug of mead — he’s being doing that more recently — and as Aziraphale picks through soft down and strong feathers he admires both his handiwork and the way Crowley has a bit more swagger about him, a bit less spikiness, a bit more of a glow.
“There.” Aziraphale smooths down the last of Crowley’s feathers, his wings dark and sleek as an oil slick, healthy and elegant as silk under his fingers. He smiles. “Now you’re perfect.”
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