* * *
* * *
The feathers cling to his fingers. He can hardly feel them over the burn of holy blood.
Aziraphale is shut-eyed and pale. He deserves it, him and his cool eyes and his distance, as if being an angel means he can't give Crowley the time of the day. He's good this way, torn apart and open. Maybe now he'll stop interfering, righting everything Crowley fucks up so carefully.
Crowley's hands are sticky with blood, feathers everywhere. Something vicious in his chest that feels like love. He'd like to know what Aziraphale is going to say when he wakes up wingless.