Fic: Under the Weight of Your Wings, A/C, PG
Title: Under the Weight of Your Wings
Rating: PG
Pairing: slight Aziraphale/Crowley
Summary: Angels are beautiful when they're sad.
Words: 800
Notes: The title comes from the Anna Nalick song "In My Head", though this is only loosely inspired by it.


His body looks heavy, Crowley thinks. Like something is pulling him down. Something stronger than gravity.

Tea steeps in a cup on the table by the register. Chamomile and lavender, a few wayward leaves floating lethargically on the surface. There is an empty cup next to it, soaked leaves plastered to the bottom in the shape of a cross.

"My tea leaves always read the same," Aziraphale says morosely; he has just walked in from the back room. His arms are laden with books, dust from the covers mingling with the tweed of his coat.

"Mine too," Crowley admits, but he doesn't bother to reveal what they say. "You know, emotional eating I understand. Or the woman who buys a new pair of expensive shoes every time a bloke breaks her heart. But your acquisition of books when you're depressed baffles me." A cigarette that had not previously been in his fingers is lifted to his lips and he takes a drag, blowing a ring of smoke away from Aziraphale.

"There's no smoking in here," the angel says stiffly, and snatches the fag from between Crowley's lips. He drops it into the full teacup, and a faint scent of burning lavender fills the air.

Crowley pouts a little, but doesn't conjure another cigarette; instead, he jumps up onto the table, letting his legs swing lazily just above the floor. "You look sad," he says.

"What do you care?" The book on the top of the stack is As I Lay Dying, below that, The Holy Bible.

Crowley wonders briefly how many bibles there are in this shop. "I care," he says with a shrug. "Especially since I haven't done anything particularly evil lately. I'm curious."

"No, you didn't have anything to do with this." Aziraphale offers no further elaboration as he walks to the nearest shelf and begins to put away the books. Crowley catches the name Descartes on one spine, and Gibson on another. And then one more Faulkner.

"Did someone die?" asks Crowley, then adds, "I got a fantastic leather trench coat today."

Aziraphale looks at him sharply. "I don't wish to discuss this with you. You take death far too lightly."

"Hey, aren't you supposed to be the one who doesn't fear death? Though I walk in the shadow of the valley and all that? Go with God? The infallible plan?" He pulls another fag out from behind his ear, though he doesn't light it before sucking it between his lips.

"I don't have to fear death," Aziraphale snaps. "I'm an angel."

"There you go. So why the long face, my feathered friend?"

Aziraphale looks away. "Did you tempt anyone to sin today, Crowley? Lead someone to the dark side? Thwart the path of goodness?"

"Nope. I was busy. Caught a Gilligan's Island marathon."

"So then what's the worst that could happen? Or should I say, the best?" The angel leans against the bookshelf, his elbow resting against a copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God. "You don't save people, you kill them."

Crowley blinks. "Hey, I never - "

"Not literally. What I mean is..." Aziraphale sighs. "You can always try again. To make people miserable. A boy died today. I could have saved him. Now I can't."

"Was his soul clean?" The demon feels conflicted, not knowing what which answer he hopes to hear. He wishes that Aziraphale's body weren't so heavy. Maybe it's not his body, after all. Maybe it's his soul.

"Yes," Aziraphale murmurs. "I know that should be all that matters. He's in a better place. But he was just starting to live his life, and - "

"And Heaven isn't as fun as that book makes it out to be?" Crowley jerks his head towards the bible on the shelf.

"I was helping him. He was afraid that he was going to Hell because he was in love with a man - "

"Ah, good old Leviticus. Your people really should do something about that."

Aziraphale gives him a sharp look. "It is the word of God. Just because it isn't as relevant as it once was doesn't mean that it's any less important. He trusts His people to differentiate."

Crowley doesn't say anything for a long while, and then - "How did he die?"

"Hit by a bus."

"Infallible, huh?"

"I'm going to make some tea," Aziraphale says quickly. He gathers the empty cups, but Crowley grabs his arm before he can head towards the washroom.

His fingers are warm. "You don't have to carry the world on your shoulders," he says softly.

"It's not the world that's heavy," Aziraphale sighs. "It's these wings." His hand is shaking. "Let me go, Crowley."

"You're beautiful when you're sad."

Aziraphale wets his lips and looks down at the cross in the teacup. "You're beautiful when I'm sad, too," he says.

Crowley feels a sudden weight on his shoulder blades. He smiles.