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quillomens · 7 months

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Book Omens Day 2: Book Era

So I didn't post this yesterday because I thought the week wasn't happening, but @book-omens-week came to life, so here it is one day late!

Also here at Ao3!

In the summer of 1984, both Aziraphale and Crowley went into moult.

Moulting was, in the opinions of Earth’s longest serving supernatural agents, approximately as irritating and pointless as hereditary Satanists and televangelists. Angels and demons lacked both breeding seasons (and reproductive parts, generally) and (in the modern day at least) any dependence on their wings for warmth. This was the twenty-first century, not the fourteenth. Or the fourth. Or…the negative thousandth. Aziraphale, who was especially allergic to anything that stood in the way of his planned hours of reading, avoiding customers, and enjoying meals, declared moulting as “antiquated and bothersome.” Strong words from heaven’s most British angel.

There were relatively few repercussions to being a supernatural being in a human suit, but the itching, scraping, tickling sensations that assaulted their wings every century or so was one.

Generally, an angel or demon’s wings existed in a sort of “pocket” of ethereal or occult space that didn’t exactly remove them but did keep them in a non-intrusive plane of semi-existence. This allowed earthly agents to walk the planet without constant worry that they might knock things over or having to sit awkwardly in chairs designed for wingless humans (heaven’s plush office chairs were specifically designed with the comfort of wings in mind; hell’s splinter-ridden wooden straight backs were engineered to crush wings as much as possible). During the centennial moult, however, the irritation crossed dimensions. Most agents (all but two, if we’re being honest) immediately scarpered off to their particular home office at the first sign of loosening feathers (even hell had steam baths, relaxing once one blocked out – or grew to enjoy – the screaming of the damned). Only Crowley and Aziraphale remained stubbornly earthside for the duration.

Chancing opportunistic reassignment to a desk job by certain unfriendly superiors wasn’t worth avoiding a little feathery discomfort.

It was on July 16th in the sixth year of the Antichrist’s existence on Earth that Aziraphale’s antique phone rang pleasantly to indicate a caller. (It had not always rung pleasantly, but one too many angelic glares and caused it to tone down its original shrill bell.) The angel plucked it up absently.

“A.Z. Fell Books-”

“’M moulting.”

Aziraphale sighed. Crowley and his determination for bad manners. All he said aloud was, “Ah,” and then, “no meeting then?”

He pretended that he wasn’t disappointed. The two of them had been meeting nearly weekly for five years now, to go over the reports from their respective agents on the Dowling boy, and Crowley had such an instinct for inconspicuous little restaurants that served absolutely amazing food. They tended, also, to be rather quiet and empty – most likely due to mob connections, honestly – but having an angel around was known to encourage Good Deeds even in Al Capone, creator of soup kitchens, so Aziraphale didn’t worry about the exact financial backing of Crowley’s collection of little-known brunch spots. As with most things concerning the pair of them, it would all come out in the wash.

“Mm…no,” Crowley agreed. Then, with smug mischief: “Means you’ll be next, angel.”

What, Aziraphale thought unangelically, a demonic brat.

Aziraphale huffed loftily. “I am aware, you old serpent,” he snapped, and Crowley snickered down the line.

Their moults hadn’t always been coordinated. Aziraphale’s had been set to his creation, while all demons were reset to their individual Falls. In the first millennium, they’d never been foolish enough to allow the other to see them in moult. In the second, Aziraphale had accidentally stumbled upon Crowley moodily moulting in South America, but had been polite enough not to mention the scattered remains of feathers. In the wake of the Agreement, however, more regular association over the last millennium had come with the extremely unexpected side effect of coordinating their moults.

It was frankly a little embarrassing.

“Well, enjoy!” the demon said cheerfully, mood always buoyed by sharing his frustration with others. “May the itch be with you!”

He hung up without saying good-bye. Of course.

(It took several minutes for the joke to properly register, but it did. Crowley had insisted Aziraphale watch the Star Wars films as payback for attending the opening night of Jesus Christ, Superstar on stage. “I’m telling you, it’s a classic Greek story, minus the tragic ending,” he’d urged. “You’ll regret it if you don’t see it on the big screen! Televisions won’t be nearly big enough for decades!”

Aziraphale had grudgingly admitted that Crowley had been right, though naturally he never said as much out loud. Couldn’t let Crowley get too full of himself.)

--*--*--*--*--*

Three days later, Aziraphale was a kind-looking being of absolute annoyance.

Apparently, we would be going for a full moult this century, and the musty air of the bookshop was no help to dry and itchy skin. The last few mobsters he’d sent off had nearly wet themselves, but then, they shouldn’t be trying to buy his bookshop, should they? And intimidation was such poor taste.

The phone rang. Even it sounded petulant.

“A.Z. Fe-”

“I have a sort of sauna,” Crowley said, without a greeting and apropos of nothing.

“How lovely for you.” Aziraphale’s voice didn’t match that word, lovely. It dripped with sarcasm, instead.

“What I’m saying,” the demon continued, unbothered, “is I have a sort of sauna with a huge tub that would fit two to maybe five human-shaped beings, or two with wings that could use some hydration.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose. “Are you inviting me to your flat? To moult?”

A pause. “I’m…informing you of a possible adventitious situation.”

“In your bathroom.”

“Psh,” Crowley said, though he would deny it under oath, “’s more than a bathroom. More a bath……ah…throne…room.”

Aziraphale let that one slide.

“Very well,” he said, mood lifting at the thought of steam and warmth and maybe cajoling his friend into plucking a few especially loose feathers he couldn’t easily reach, “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Right,” the demon growled, and there was the dial tone.

--*--*--*--*--*--

It wasn’t that Aziraphale and Crowley were especially fussed about nudity. You couldn’t be, living as long as they had, in as many cultures as they had. Besides, even with the closer connection they’d formed to these latest corporations over the last few centuries, they were still, well, bodies. Nothing to get excited about.

It was just that Aziraphale could count on one hand, with some fingers taped neatly together, the number of times he’d been to Crowley’s Mayfair flat. They met covertly all over London to discuss their current…project…and Crowley occasionally popped by the bookshop with wine or dessert or lunch or a book or…whatever else caught his fancy. But they didn’t meet in Crowley’s flat. Which Aziraphale was more than fine with – it was much too open, empty, and white for his scattered and cluttered taste.

But the promise of a good steam got him up and moving.

--*--*--*--*--*--

Crowley wasn’t nervous about having the angel in his flat, because Crowley didn’t get nervous. Crowley was calm, cool, and collected. He was the epitome of all the good c’s. Calm, cool, collected, comfortable Crowley, definitely not bouncing his leg nervously as he guided Aziraphale through his open flat, past the terrified plants, through the bedroom (“Two beds?” Aziraphale asked, but Crowley pretended not to hear. Two beds was perfectly reasonable. What if he needed a second bed? Who was the angel to question his decorative choices? It didn’t have anything to do with Aziraphale and the possible, if unlikely, scenario that he would need somewhere to stay that was well-warded against angels and demons and less generally known than the bookshop.), and into the promised bathroom.

He heard the happy little sigh as they entered the steam-filled chamber and grinned to himself.

Crowley’s flat wasn’t really his home – he wasn’t the sort to need a home, as he reminded himself on a regular basis. It was a place he stayed when not out and about doing evil. As such, the only rooms he really dedicated attention to were the bedroom, because he loved sleeping, the plant room, because they did have certain requirements beyond threats and beratement, and his ridiculously oversized and luxurious bathroom.

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale said, a little pink cheeked already. The recessed pool was already filled with plenty of hot water, the air heavy with steam, the rain-style shower heads keeping up the heat and humidity. Where most of his apartment was white, this room was a dark charcoal-gray.

Crowley didn’t blush or clear his throat or mutter a random syllable (he did). “Strip down and step on in,” he said instead, trying to sound officious.

He was able to slide right in, being of demonic stock, but he had the opportunity to snicker his way through the angel stepping in one toe, ankle, shin at a time. Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t boil, but he’d be plenty pink after this soak.

Aziraphale shot him one of his patented bitchy looks. Crowley grinned back toothily.

It was interesting, seeing Aziraphale bare for the first time in a few centuries. He still wasn’t making an Effort, but his heaven-assigned muscles were covered with a soft layer of fat and downy gold hair. There were dimples at the small of his back, and a comfortable jiggle to his thighs completely absent in Crowley’s own corporation. Aziraphale looked comfortable and lived in and…content. Well, besides the whole end of the world thing.

Crowley glanced down at himself, mostly hairless, tannish skin slick with sweat, slender from top to bottom. He fancied he liked his own lived-in body as well. What a strange old world.

Once they were settled in the seats – “This does remind me of that lovely bath in Turkey, do you remember?” – “’Course I remember. Why do’ya think it reminds you of it?” – they took twin breaths, leaned forward, and let out their wings.

The angel gave out a low groan that made Crowley laugh, head thrown back, until he caught sight of the poor things. Their wings were similar in a great many ways – the same bluish-white, strong and broad (if not broad enough to lift them off the ground in any logical or scientific fashion), a little shine in the right light – but where Crowley’s were as neat as possible aside from the crumbling feathers here and there, Aziraphale’s were a mess.

“Still, angel?” he asked.

Aziraphale huffed. “They’re fine.”

“You look like a feathered hedgehog.”

“Well that, my dear, is just rude.”

Crowley pressed a wet hand to his chest. “Who, me? Rude? To an angel? Never!”

Aziraphale did not grace him with a response.

The silence relaxed into comfortable familiarity for a time. Crowley curved his wing close and began the slow process of preening. Aziraphale closed his eyes and leaned back in the hot water.

“At least we don’t have to do this every year,” the angel said eventually. “And it doesn’t take weeks. Or months.”

“Months?”

“Saw a film.”

“Right. Thought you read books.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Crowley smirked.

Crowley let his legs float up, scaled toes poking out into the steam. Aziraphale studied them a moment. He looked…soft and lazy. Crowley liked it. Aziraphale was certainly better at relaxing than he was, but it still didn’t happen every day.

Crowley wiggled his toes. scales rubbing pleasantly.

“Do they shed?”

Aziraphale raised a wrist and waved it lazily. A find brandy appeared in his hand and, to Crowley’s pleased surprise, the demons. It didn’t occur to them that perhaps heat didn’t go do well with alcohol, but then, a great many things didn’t occur to them on a daily basis, and it was rarely a problem.

“Birds?”

“No, snakes. Or. You. Your….” Aziraphale waved a hand. “Your feet or. Your spine. Do they shed?”

Crowley took a gulp – he never was much of one for classy sipping. “Curiosity, Aziraphale? That’ll get you into trouble.” His smile was sly.

“Do they?”

Ah well, not taking the bait today. He could never be certain with Aziraphale; that was the fun part. If he was too easy to fluster, it’d be boring. And Aziraphale, prim and proper and bitchy and annoying and holier-than-thou and intelligent and sarcastic, was never boring.

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

Aziraphale hummed.

“Itches.”

Aziraphale nodded. If the angel slept, Crowley would think he was cozily half- asleep.

Really, it was a shame the angel didn’t sleep. Crowley’d love to snap a picture of the angel with his faced squashed in a pillow, maybe drooling a little bit. Lovely blackmail material.

Daring and mischievous, he poked one plush knee with his toe.

The angel shot him a half-hearted glare.

From there, the conversation began along the customary rambling paths, unfamiliar setting not preventing comfortable old arguments or the occasional tipsy giggle. In the miraculous heat of the bath, as feathers fell and new ones wiggled in, an angel and a demon who certainly weren’t friends chattered and teased and managed to forget, for a few precious hours, about the end of everything they held dear.

(Even, perhaps, each other, though they didn’t say as much. Of course.)

#book omens #good omens #book omens week #book-omens-week #aziracrow #moulting #wingfic #quill writes

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