Request ficlet: Good Omens

[icarus_chained]

For genclay  .

Title:  Feathers
Rating:  PG-13
Fandom:  Prattchet and Gaiman's 'Good Omens'
Characters/Pairings:  Aziraphale/Crowley
Summary:  A demon's wings differ from an angel's in only one key aspect: they are usually much better groomed.
Wordcount:  636
Warnings:  none, really, aside from the pairing itself

Bentleys make a particular noise when barrelling through London streets with enough malicious abandon to scare passing pedestrians into seriously considering absailing to work. A kind of restrained, throaty, gleeful roar. Well. Crowley's did, anyway. It was a sound Aziraphale rather fancied he knew in his soul, and would hear over the very trumpets of Judgement Day should it come to it, though not necessarily the M-25 rushhour cacophany.

It was a sound that meant fun, and warmth, and a certain level of wickedness that for the soul of him the angel could not bring himself to regret. Not even for an instant.

Smiling slightly to himself, the kind of gentle, bemused smile that would have had Crowley breaking out in hives had he seen it, Aziraphale finished putting his books away, and concentrated for a second on getting himself in the right frame of mind and body for the coming meeting. There was a sense of otherworldly warmth, briefly, filling the little Soho bookshop with sunshine and love and the sound of beating wings, but he quickly got that under control, muttering under his breath and sternly telling his heart to please remember that there were potential civilians around, so could it please tone down the love-for-all-mankind bit.

It was hard. A happy heart is an expansive heart.

Then the bell over the door rang, and Crowley entered, his presence instantly spreading out to wander insouciantly through the bookshop, and leave grubby fingermarks on the books. Aziraphale glanced over, frowning heavily, and the demon gave an innocent little shrug, as it he had nothing to do with it. Shaking his head, the angel sighed and, resigning himself to some repairs later, reached out to feather a hand over Crowley's cheek in greeting. The demon shuddered, his eyes slipping to half-mast, and a strangely shy smile gracing his serpentine lips. Aziraphale smiled, his heart clenching a little, and patted his love on the cheek as condescendingly as he could bear, smiling brighter as Crowley flashed a pleased grin his way. He opened his mouth to say hello properly, when he noticed Crowley's eyes slip past his face to frown at something over his shoulder.

"Dearest?" he asked, frowning himself, and Crowley flashed him a Look, before wagging his finger tuttingly.

"Angel, surely you don't intend to go out like that, do you?" the demon admonished, grinning disarmingly as Aziraphale looked bewildered. "What have you done to your wings?" Crowley shook his head in disappointment, and slipped out around Aziraphale to reach behind him, and lay gentle, precise fingers on the feathers of his nearest wing. The angel hurriedly muffled the gasp, and tried to turn, stopped by his love's hand.

"Crowley?" he asked.

"How do you expect to fly with your primaries in such a mess?" the demon muttered, fingers slipping under feathers, aligning them, straightening them, as precise and delicate as if they were his own. "I've always said the only difference between demon and angel wings is that demons' tend to be so much better groomed, but really!" He went on in that vein, his hands moving with a life of their own, tracing and gentling, soothing.

"Van ... Vanity is a sin, linked to pride," Aziraphale managed, mostly for the appearance of the thing, and Crowley grinned sharply, tweaking a shaft lightly in admonishment.

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness, isn't it?" he shot back. "Really, Angel, you'll need to do better than that!" And so intent was he on his task, and so sure of his victory, that he never saw Aziraphale's tiny little smirk.

"No," the angel murmured, mostly to himself. "I really don't think I will."

Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide.

Two of these were right.