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Aziraphale had lost a feather a long time ago.
His wings were usually messy, or at least messier than what demons preferred, if Crowley was to be trusted on that. But angels (and demons, for that matter) never lost feathers. Every single one was part of their incorporeal existence, part of their soul that they could manifest in the physical world as wings. They didn't work like birds' wings, and hence they didn't moult.
However, Aziraphale had managed to lose a feather. It was a secondary one, and there was a spot in his left wing he could sense it was empty, like a place he wanted to scratch sometimes. Over time, Aziraphale grew used to it, but whenever he was reminded of this, he couldn't help but wonder where that feather was. He wasn't even sure when exactly he had lost that feather. Perhaps when he lied to God? Or during the chaos of the Flood? There were many times when he had been in reckless situations. The Bastille, for example.
Either way, he had stopped searching for it and had accepted that absence as part of himself. Deep down, it just fed into the knowledge that he wasn't like the other angels, and it stung a bit, but he had managed to hide it from Gabriel, so it didn't give him any problems. He was the only one to know. Aziraphale had considered telling Crowley several times, especially when he was drunk. Sometimes, he remembered just how different he felt, how this mystery had never gotten solved, even though it was unimportant. It always seemed to come back to him from time to time, as Aziraphale was unable to completely forget about the feather -- perhaps Crowley had seen it, or had experienced something similar. But his lips always sealed themselves at the last minute: was he going to confess that to a demon? It was a vulnerable characteristic of his very soul; it could be stupid to tell an enemy. Who knew how it could be exploited against him, against Heaven. Aziraphale couldn't risk it.
Eventually, things changed. Time is a river and it flows continually, headstrong towards a destiny the water itself may not know about. It can take detours and go through the hardest of mountains for a place it doesn't know about. Just like that, this little secret Aziraphale didn't dare to confess lead him to a much bigger realisation, an ocean he hadn't been able to spot until time had guided him to it.
It began, and ended, with rain.
It had been raining for several days. This is not surprising, as it was London, but its habitants had found this insulting anyway. Especially that day, as it had started with sun until the rain had come unexpectedly. The consequences of this were a moody wet demon in Aziraphale's back room.
"I hate running. Have I ever told you about it? I also hate rain. Why does it have to rain something wet and cold? What's so good about it?"
Aziraphale handed Crowley a towel. "Come on, don't be like that. It's just a little rain."
Crowley mumbled something Aziraphale didn't bother understanding. He stared at the tartan towel in his hands, considering his options. He could always miracle himself dry, but Aziraphale wasn't going to tell him that. In the end, Crowley sighed in resignation and used the towel.
Aziraphale was a bit upset about his clothes. His old, stylish and comfortable clothes had gotten quite wet. He took off the jacket and his waistcoat, and left them on a chair to dry -- there was no way he would use a miracle for it. Some things were better done manually.
Crowley stared at him for a second, and then looked away. Aziraphale repressed a sigh -- better to get something to cover himself, if this was the reaction he was going to get.
"Wait here, dear, I'll go get changed." Crowley just nodded, and Aziraphale left for a while.
When he came back, his nice cardigan nicely wrapped around him, and other trousers that were a tender, light pink he had never been brave enough to use, he found Crowley without his jacket on, which he had left on the chair by his side. His hair was all tousled and still wet, like he had used the towel to dry it off a bit. It was oddly endearing. He was sleeping on the couch, the sunglasses in his hand by his side, nearly touching the ground, and the towel was now on his face.
Well, they had just been walking around the park after spending the night drinking together and talking. The poor demon must have been tired, as he deeply cared about this sleeping habit of his. Aziraphale approached him with an affectionate smile, amused by how the towel went up and down in time with Crowley's breathing, which was slower than any human would survive. He didn't even need to breathe, but perhaps it was part of the experience. The image of the towel, with his tartan, on Crowley, made his heart ache.
Aziraphale spotted something white by his feet. At first, he thought it would be a handkerchief that had fallen from his pockets, but when his eyes recognised it, he gasped. It was his feather.
With delicate fingers, he picked it up from the floor. It was undamaged, well kept and shining, and even though Aziraphale knew it was his by instinct, it was in a better state than the rest of his feathers, despite it being a bit damp on the edges.
"How…?"
Shocked, he let himself fall into his armchair. The sound must have woken Crowley up, as he stirred and the towel fell to the ground.
"Angel, what's --" When Crowley noticed the feather in Aziraphale's fingers, his face turned bright red. "Argh. Where did you find it?"
Aziraphale stared at Crowley. "Do you know what this is?"
With surprising dexterity, Crowley took the feather from Aziraphale and pocketed it. "It's mine."
Colours rose on Aziraphale's cheeks. "Don't lie to me. That feather is not yours."
Crowley's face was so red Aziraphale thought it might explode. "Ngk."
"Crowley…"
"Alright, fine!" Crowley took the feather out again, but didn't give it back to Aziraphale. "But please don't laugh at me."
Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. "I can't promise anything."
Crowley grumbled. "Guess I don't have any other option."
"No, you don't."
Crowley sighed. "Fine. I know the feather is yours."
"So why do you have it?" Aziraphale exclaimed.
"Let me explain, angel, this is already difficult as it is." Crowley put on his sunglasses. "I found it ages ago. I promise my first intention was to give it back… but I just couldn't."
"What do you mean?"
"I found it the day we met, okay? You were…" Crowley waved his hands around, trying to find the correct words. "I don't know, kind, nice, but not the usual cold angelic nice. You were actually nice. And you were different ."
Aziraphale grimaced. "Thank you, I think?"
"Hm. You sheltered me from the rain that day, do you remember?" Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley looked down at his feet. "It was the first time someone showed me kindness since I, well, since I Fell. I was shocked. And when you left, I spotted something on the ground. It was this feather. I took it, thinking I would turn it back if we ever met again, but when we did, I just… I couldn't. And every time we saw each other it was the same. I tried to, but I didn't want to part with it. In the end, I just kept it, and always carried it with me. It must have fallen from my pocket earlier."
Aziraphale frowned. "That doesn't explain why you kept it."
Crowley exploded. "You're so clever, angel, but so oblivious. I'm in love with you, okay?" He breathed in and repeated himself, this time with a surprisingly soft voice. "I'm in love with you."
Aziraphale struggled to find his words, flustered. Crowley stared at him with an intensity he had never previously seen on him.
"No, it can't be."
Crowley grimaced. "I know it's not what you wanted to hear, and I would've gone to the grave without telling you, but --"
"It's not that." Aziraphale blushed. "I would've known if it were true. I'm an angel, remember? We sense these things."
Crowley shook his head. "I don't know. I promise I'm telling you the truth. How many more times will you make me say it, angel?" He slid his hands underneath his glasses, blushing all the way down his neck, leaving the feather on his lap.
Aziraphale played with the ring of his hand. How could it be? He was sure Crowley was being sincere, but his aura was still quiet, no love to be sensed there. Was it because he was a demon? Aziraphale was sure it wasn't that. Was he allowed to have hope? That the demon would love him the same way he did?
"And I know it's stupid, but I got this feeling that… your feather was protecting me. Just like you did that day under the rain. It's warm and familiar and it's just like you . You never asked me about it, either." Crowley shrugged and played with the feather with his fingers. Aziraphale watched, barriers in his heart still too solid to let them all down in a second. He was scared that everything was a lie, a dream, and he would wake up and tear his heart apart again.
The demon sighed. "I should get going now. Stop bothering you. And ngh, I guess I should return this now like I should've done years ago." Crowley handed him the feather, and the moment Aziraphale took it, the air shifted between them.
It was an explosion to Aziraphale's senses. An emotion, deep like the ocean and just as vast as it, filled the room and overwhelmed his angelic soul. It was his first time sensing it, but it was somehow familiar, like an old friend he hadn't spoken to for decades. It burned , the edges of it lightening up his angelic essence, putting an end to a long night. It was painful. Glorious. It was everything.
It was Crowley's love, unceasing, generous affection of a thousand years of longing. It was a love like any other, a devotion only matched by Aziraphale's own.
The feather fell to the floor again.
"Oh, my dear Crowley." Tears damped his cheeks. "I have been so blind."
"What's wrong, angel? Are you alright?" Crowley grabbed his hands, his worry dripping from the edges of his soul, this love so great Aziraphale was nearly blind from it.
"I can see it, Crowley. Oh, you truly love me, don't you?"
Crowley let go of a sarcastic laugh. "Of course I do. I wasn't lying."
"Sorry I ever doubted you." Aziraphale caressed Crowley's cheek, amazed. "I love you too, my dear. More than you could ever imagine."
Crowley titled his head, following Aziraphale's touch. "Really?"
"Yes."
Crowley leaned on him and their noses brushed. "You… you can sense my, ahem, love now?"
Aziraphale nodded. "I don't understand it myself. In one moment, I went from sensing nothing to being overwhelmed by it."
Crowley pointed to the feather. "Do you think it has anything to do with it?"
He considered it. "Perhaps when you gave up on it, something changed?"
"I have a theory, but…" Crowley shrugged. "You know when I told you I felt protected by it?" Aziraphale nodded. "Maybe it was protecting me too much. And it was shielding me, so because it's from your soul, you only sensed what the feather was. We're of similar stock, you and I. Maybe it's a bit of a stretch."
"I'm not occult, though."
Crowley arched an eyebrow and Aziraphale chuckled. He kissed Crowley then, and the demon's soul exploded in a myriad of colours that shook Aziraphale to the core.
Rainy days were special, after all.