"Why, he'll be wanting a tricycle soon," Nanny Ashteroth cooed with an unpleasant smile on her face.

The young master Warlock was just about sixteen months old at this point and Crowley was pleased to see that he was already getting to be quite the troublemaker. The boy loved to toddle his way over to his father's desk, having found the door to his study mysteriously unlocked, and when his nanny wasn't looking would find tons of fun-looking official documents and tear them up into bits. Or there was one time on one of Nanny Ashtoreth's days off that he found a pair of scissors and decided it would be delightfully entertaining to use on one of mommy's favorite dresses.

And then there were times that he would wander outside into the garden, to a whole new world filled with life and light and excitement just waiting to be explored by a rambunctious little toddler who was sick of being cooped up inside. Then there would be Brother Francis. The gardener showed him how to throw out feed for the birds, or told him to be mindful of little slugs and snakes sunbathing on rocks throughout the yard, and one day they looked together at a nest full of adorable newly hatched birds buried in the brush, little hatchlings that chirped and squeaked for food. Francis also told him to be nice to insects, but they had always looked really icky and Warlock wanted nothing to do with them.

Then most every night Nanny Ashtoreth would tuck him into bed and sing sweet and soft lullabies about the wails of the damned, eternal agony, world domination, or violating virgins. Warlock wasn't sure what all that meant exactly, but he didn't think Brother Francis would have agreed with any of it.

Over this time Crowley and Aziraphale continued to have their weekly meetings in private. Dinner was a popular choice for them, but eventually they decided that they could only resort to it every once in a while if they wanted to avoid suspicion. Not that they were up to anything bad, of course, or good in Crowley's case, but they agreed that it was better if their superiors didn't catch on and think there was more to these meetings than there really was.

After they had run out of different restaurants in the area, they resorted to occasional alternatives. The park was an option, though they preferred more secluded meetings. They came up with similar concerns regarding bus and train stations. Art galleries and concerts were possible options at times. But they had found that sharing a drink in Aziraphale's bookshop every now and again was private enough to talk about anything they liked, and they were both rather comfortable together in that setting. It was the perfect place to scheme and plan their plot to save the world. Though that sort of talk, in truth, dominated their conversations only a fraction of the time before segueing to another topic entirely.

This was the first time that they had agreed to meet on an official and regular basis in six thousand years, and they both found it an uncomfortably welcome change. Both of them even began to look forward to these meetings, possibly with a sense of urgency as they began to hope rather separately that they would be successful and the apocalypse would be averted. If it did happen, they were painfully aware that they would be fighting on opposite sides of a long and bloody war. Best not to think of it.

It was far more pleasant, they found, to celebrate their differences, not that they really had all that many differences in the grand scheme of things. Years passed in this rhythm. Warlock was nearly five years old already, and their officially unofficial dates had been consuming much more of their conscious–and unconscious–minds than was probably good for them of late.

Aziraphale refused to label their meetings in any way and further refused to acknowledge that he was "consorting with the enemy,'' as his superiors would have liked to put it. Crowley knew damn well what they were doing, and what's worse was that he knew he liked it. It was just another thing to add to the pile of reasons to hate himself. Not that he was willing to put a stop to their meetings, of course.

It was on one early evening, several weeks before Warlock would turn five, that the two found themselves in the back room of the bookshop nursing glasses of wine. Crowley was draped over the sofa, swirling the wine in his glass and trying to gauge how much more he should have. He was just beginning to feel the effects, only slightly, and he hoped that this would promise to be a long night of drinking to come and talking about nothing noteworthy whatsoever. At least so far, he was becoming comfortably numb to many of the insecurities and doubts that plagued his mind so often.

He was vaguely aware of Aziraphale muttering something about his daily care routine and whatnot. Next he went on talking about his manicured hands and something about how miracling things wasn't the proper way to get it done when taking care of oneself by hand was so much more satisfying. He didn't sound drunk by any means, but just the slightest bit of an edge to his voice made it sound like he was getting all worked up and forgetting his head for a time, worrying over simple matters. Crowley found something about this Aziraphale oddly pleasant in these moments.

"And don't get me started on wings!" Aziraphale spluttered in exasperation as Crowley took another sip of his own wine. "Dreadful design flaw: human bodies with wings. Birds don't have any issue preening their wings! They can reach around easy as anything to take care of them, but what are we angels to do? I can hardly be expected to tie myself into knots trying to keep them tidy."

Crowley made a face at him as he said, "Most angels don't care. And what do you care? We don't use our wings for anything on Earth anyway."

"Er. No," Aziraphale agreed reluctantly. "But I shouldn't have to go around with unkempt feathers all the time. Even if no one sees them...I would always know they're there, all mangled feathers and untidy-"

"If I clean your stupid wings for you will you shut up about it?" Crowley snapped in irritation.

The angel seemed entirely unbothered by his tone, and visibly brightened at the suggestion. "Would you really?"

Crowley groaned, "Yes, of course, but who the heaven cares if they're a little messy?"

"I do," Aziraphale said with a stern little pout. "Now, if I can just find a damp cloth..."

The demon set his wine aside and hissed, "A damp cloth? Really?"

"You already said you would help," Aziraphale determinedly replied before putting down his own glass and dashing out of the room. That angel could move surprisingly fast when he wanted to.

Truthfully Crowley didn't mind it at all; he was happy to help his friend. He was especially happy to do so when he knew things like this mattered a lot to Aziraphale, and how he obsessed over his appearance. From his aforementioned manicured hands to the immaculate suits he had worn without fail for the last several centuries, he was passionate about always looking his best.

After a moment Aziraphale entered the room with a towel and a medium-sized bowl of water, which he set down on the table beside Crowley. He closed his eyes in focus, and the demon watched with mild interest as two majestic white wings unfurled from behind his back and stretched out across the room, lightly brushing some of the shelves as Aziraphale stretched them out. In truth, they looked absolutely fine to Crowley, but if the angel insisted, he was willing to help.

"Did you just let your wings poke two big, gaping holes in your favorite suit?" Crowley asked in shock.

Aziraphale frowned. "Er. No, I...just a little miracle. No trouble at all, I can make it look normal afterwards. You know I wouldn't ruin a perfectly good suit like that, and I could hardly just undress here, now, could I?"

Something short-circuited in Crowley's brain, though he couldn't tell why. "Er. Right."

The angel didn't seem to notice his reaction but focused more on himself. He turned his back to Crowley and gave his wings a gentle, tentative shake, careful not to knock anything over in the narrow confines of the shop. Crowley soon got over himself and watched as the snow-colored feathers rippled softly in the dingy bookshop lighting. A part of him got to thinking that it was a shame for them to be revealed in such dim and inelegant lighting in some musty old shop. He shook the thought from his mind.

"You see?" Aziraphale said wretchedly. "I have the most problems right at the base, by my shoulder blades. I can only imagine how dreadful they look."

Crowley wanted to assure him that they looked magnificent, but instead barked, "Oh, shut it." He hoped the angel wouldn't notice that the sound came out a little more choked than he had intended.

Without another word he grabbed the towel and got it wet in the bowl on the table, then wrung it until it was barely damp and started on brushing over the angel's wings. He could see now that there were two holes in Aziraphale's clothes that looked as if they had been made that way, allowing the wings to pass harmlessly through the fabric. The high and mighty idiot was willing to perform little miracles like that when it suited him, it would seem.

Crowley brushed the towel over the base of his wings, careful to avoid getting the precious coat wet or he probably wouldn't hear the end of it. Bit by bit he washed the soft feathers, adjusted them if they were crooked, or plucked some that were old or looked like they were ready to come out. There really wasn't that much to do, but he agonized over every feather like he knew Aziraphale would have wanted, even if he probably wouldn't expect Crowley to give him that much care. Well, care wasn't a good word, he thought with disgust. Attention.

Whatever it was, Crowley continued meticulously cleaning Aziraphale's wings and revelling in the feeling of his bare hand brushing at the beautiful strands one by one, or occasionally along the length of the light, soft wing. This was one of the few traces of Aziraphale in this world that was explicitly angelic, and yet still entirely his own. They were glorious, and stunning.

He dare not let his hands hover in one place too long for fear of how Aziraphale might react, but he certainly enjoyed every moment, whether he realized it or not. Over time he moved further down the wings to places where the angel could obviously reach himself, but he was relieved to see that Azirapahle didn't seem to mind. Before long they shone brilliantly in even the gloomy atmosphere of the bookshop, and Crowley set the towel down on the table beside the bowl of water and a pile of white feathers that had either fallen out or been plucked by Crowley's meticulous hands.

"All finished," he said as he stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying all too hard to appear apathetic.

Aziraphale gave his wings a look over with a warm smile on his face, then turned to the demon and said with gratitude, "Thank you, Crowley."

It almost looked as though he, too, was trying to appear disinterested, but for the life of him he couldn't hide that pleased look on his face. And Crowley was sure that he could see a great deal of joy in those soft blue eyes of his. The angel turned to admire them a moment longer then folded them neatly behind his back, not bothering to put them away for now.

"What's that?" Aziraphale asked.

While he wasn't looking Crowley had grabbed one of the feathers from the table and tucked it behind his ear. "New fashion statement. You don't like it?"

"White isn't your colour," Aziraphale said with a hint of mirth in his voice.

The demon's lips twitched into a little smile, then asked, "So why exactly do you care about your wings so much? Aren't angels supposed to be selfless and avoid vanity and whatnot?"

"You're hardly one to talk about our respective roles," Aziraphale said defensively. "Aren't demons supposed to be vain? When is the last time you took care of your wings?"

"When was The Black Death again?"

"You haven't taken care of your wings in over 600 years!?"

Crowley's face twisted in a mild look of chagrin at the thought of what his celestial friend must be thinking about that. He bobbed his head awkwardly and said, "Sounds like...about the right time, I would say."

"What would encourage you to neglect such a thing for six centuries!?" Aziraphale demanded disapprovingly.

Crowley shrugged, "You said yourself there are some hard-to-reach spots...and we don't use our wings for anything, anyway. Just doesn't seem worth the hassle."

"Show me."

"Why?"

"Show me your wings, Crowley," Aziraphale said sternly. "You helped me; now let me do the same for you."

Crowley made a face at him but obliged, letting the image of wings unfurling in his mind become a reality. It felt rather good, actually, to feel his wings stretch out from his back to nearly their full length, hindered only by the confines of the shop. He wasn't really self-conscious, but something about the displeased look the angel was giving him caught him off guard and made him shift around nervously.

"Oh, good lord Crowley," Aziraphale said with that disapproving look on his face, his discomfort clearly visible.

The demon rolled his eyes as he tried to defend himself, "I haven't even used my wings for six centuries, what does it matter?"

"That is no excuse," Aziraphale chided as he reached for the damp towel.

"Oh no you don't!" Crowley said in response, backing away. "I'm not going to have my wings groomed by an angel."

Aziraphale sighed. "Would you please let me help you? I won't ask again. Please, turn around."

Crowley groaned, but before he could stop himself he found that he was already turning around. In one last act of defiance he shook his wings out, scattering old black feathers throughout the shop, as well as the wind from his wings scattering loose bits of paper here and there and knocking over a few books. He smirked when he imagined he could physically feel the angel's eyes trying to melt holes in the back of his skull.

"Keep that up and I'll pluck every one of your feathers so you look quite like a naked chicken," Aziraphale grumbled. "Although with your hygiene they appear far more likely to fall out of their own accord before I get the chance."

Crowley was free to smirk now that Aziraphale couldn't see his face. Truthfully, it was pretty fun to hear him get so worked up about things. Only sometimes though, which was why he settled down and held still from then on.

Before Aziraphale started, he said, "You're lucky there's no such thing as supernatural parasites, or you'd be a living infestation."

"You're a supernatural parasite."

Once again he could feel the angel's withering glare searing into the back of his head and chuckled to himself at how marvellously clever he'd been.

All of his humour was forgotten, however, as he felt Aziraphale's hands on the base of his left wing. He had to will himself not to shudder at the strange and unfamiliar touch, but a small shiver spread through his body against his will. If the angel noticed, he didn't say a word about it. Crowley willed his entire body to relax and tried to get used to the weirdly intimate feeling of a stranger's hand on his wings.

Not a stranger, he reminded himself, which strangely did work rather well to calm his nerves. If only he had more alcohol, but he was beginning to worry that it was quite fading off at this point. After a time, though, he decided that it wasn't necessarily an unpleasant feeling by any means.

Against his better judgement he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the feeling of Aziraphale's gentle hands grooming his wings, washing and plucking and straightening his feathers here and there. Every touch sent little sparks of feeling along Crowley's nervous system, erupting at every point of contact between them. He certainly didn't expect to enjoy this so much, and yet somehow, regrettably, the attention was extremely satisfying.

There was a horrible feeling in his gut, so disgustingly and agonizingly pleasant it made him sick. He knew this feeling, though. He had been dealing with it off and on for centuries, after all, but he'd never felt it so strongly before. He thoroughly enjoyed every moment he got to spend with that annoying angel, and now more than ever this white-hot feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he wasn't entirely satisfied with such a relationship as they currently had. If you could even call it a relationship at this point. He wasn't sure what it was.

It took every ounce of control in Crowley's body to keep it from shuddering under Aziraphale's soft and caring hands. It was simply ridiculous. He was a demon! What did he think he was doing running around developing feelings for some bloody angel? But they both also knew it was just as ridiculous to call themselves enemies. How could Crowley be expected to go to war with the one being in the entire universe he didn't utterly despise? Even, the only being that truly understood him when he thought about it, if only partially. As far as anyone could understand him, anyway.

The two of them probably had more in common than most of their...associates. They really were more human than angel or demon at times, after so long on the planet, but their immortality ensured that they could never get close with any humans, or have any real place among humanity. Surely Aziraphale felt the same way, even if his self-righteous attitude liked to tell him that he was still a loyal angel through and through.

Speak of the angel–Aziraphale said, "Almost finished. Would you mind stretching out this wing a bit so I can reach these pesky feathers?"

"Right," Crowley said as he obliged and stretched out his right wing, feeling a little exposed after being pulled from his troubling thoughts.

It was now or never, he decided with a nervous gulp.

"Thank you, Angel," he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. "I don't think my wings have ever seen such care." They do look magnificent, he acknowledged briefly, though he didn't dwell on it.

"Of course," Aziraphale answered, taken aback by the sentiment. He was just genuinely happy the demon had let him do it.

Crowley struggled past his own discomfort and continued, "I like spending time with you. At least, better than eternity in Hell."

It was at this moment that he realized he had absolutely no idea how to approach the subject.

"I suppose that's good to hear. You are most welcome, then," Aziraphale said sincerely, though something told him that there was a change to the atmosphere that he couldn't quite put his finger on. "Right, all done."

Crowley allowed himself to look at the wings again a bit more thoroughly, hoping this would give him the courage to say the words he didn't have put together yet. Aziraphale watched in awe as the demon spread his infernal black wings experimentally, the now pristine pitch feathers sliding perfectly in rows as they moved. Aziraphale's eyes followed them, admiring how the black feathers shone with a sort of arcane light in the low-lit conditions of the bookshop.

The wings rippled with unholy majesty, thriving in the dim conditions like any demon's wings rightly would. Their colour, black as any starless night, was a sign of his fall from Heaven and the fundamental distinction between the two of them. They were unmistakably demonic, and still so much more beautifully Crowley as well.

The demon turned to face Aziraphale, his black feathers fluttering as his wings folded down to a more comfortable position against his back. "Aziraphale, can I ask you something?"

"I suppose so."

Well, he wasn't going to make this easy, that was for sure. "Do you like spending time with me too?"

With such an innocent question, Aziraphale was perfectly willing to do just a bit of dangerous reflection. "I do rather enjoy speaking with you on occasion, when our situations allow."

Nope. Definitely not making this any easier.

"Come on," Crowley said encouragingly, "admit it: you like our little weekly dates."

"I wouldn't call them 'dates' perhaps," Aziraphale tried to reason, "they are meetings designed to discuss our little Antichrist problem."

Crowley pointed out, "We haven't even mentioned the brat once since leaving the property tonight."

The angel began to look troubled at that. "You're right. We have a task to accomplish yet. Any updates on your end?"

Crowley was beginning to feel a little frustrated. Frustrated at the white-feathered idiot, at himself for having these complicated feelings, and most of all with Heaven and Hell for their ridiculous standards and ways of life. Hell forbid he develop feelings.

"That's the point, isn't it?" Crowley hissed. "I have no updates. You have no updates. We're here preening each other's bloody wings and you still think of me as the enemy. You still pretend this is all in the name of some idiotic plan that we won't even be able to see the result of for another six years!"

He had never had a love confession before, but he was fairly certain there wasn't meant to be this much anger. Why couldn't he seem to stop himself?

"Don't be ridiculous!" Aziraphale said sternly back, his own voice rising a bit more than usual, defensively. Did Crowley have a point? Was the angel enjoying their 'dates' more than he was meant to? No, they were on opposite sides and he couldn't lose sight of that, not now. Not when the end was less than a decade away. "I have no feelings for you! We aren't even human. What, do you expect some kind of relationship? Us?"

The way he said it sent icy daggers through Crowley's heart. His lips curled in a snarl as he said, "You've been out of Heaven long enough, you'd think it would be obvious you don't belong up there with them! You have more in common with me and you know it. What could be so wrong about being just a little bit human?"

"I'm an angel!" Aziraphale exclaimed in return, his voice cracking. He wasn't entirely sure what was happening, but he wished it could go back to...whatever it was that they had had before. "You are a demon! It is absurd to think that we could have anything between us but animosity."

"Then what the heaven do you think has been between us for the last five years?" Crowley hissed, his eyes almost completely yellow as his irises expanded from stress. "Or, Hell forbid, the six thousand bloody years before that?"

Aziraphale was shaking now, though whether from anger or denial or fear Crowley couldn't tell. "I don't call it anything. There is nothing whatsoever between us!"

"Then why am I even here?" Crowley roared as a last resort.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't be!"

There was a long pause. Crowley stood up a little straighter and set his jaw as he stared daggers at the dumb blonde bastard in front of him. It took him several long moments to formulate a coherent response.

"Maybe I shouldn't be," he echoed softly, though his eyes burned with anger. At least, he thought it was anger.

Aziraphale glared back, still shaking slightly despite his efforts to control it. "Right then," was all he managed to say in response.

"Right. Good-bye then."

Crowley turned on his heel and stormed out of the bookshop, not daring to look behind him at that ridiculous celestial face. The door slammed shut behind him as he stepped out into the dark. He was visibly shaking as he crammed himself into the driver's side of the Bentley, realizing too late that his wings were still out when he felt them get crushed between his back and the seat. He blessed under his breath at the pain and a second later his wings were gone, perhaps for another six hundred years. His mind was racing; he hissed absentmindedly to himself as he put the car into drive. Within moments he was speeding away as the Bentley's wheels screeched in protest.

He tore down the streets of London, as far away from that blasted bookshop as he could get.