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Despite the fact that Aziraphale's wings are far from being the neatest (even compared to other angels - who typically view overgrooming as a matter of vanity - Aziraphale's wings are notably unkempt. The other angels will pair up or group together to sort out each other's wings every once in a while, purely a matter of practicality in the spirit of maintaining good health, but Aziraphale is often too anxious and discomfited around the others to ask or offer), there is still nothing he enjoys more than a good grooming session.
He enjoys it so much that he can spend hours lost in the sensations of preening and still emerge no neater than he was when he first began. This is, of course, because he prioritizes the sensations far above obtaining the end result of having a more put-together appearance.
He's been fond of exploring his senses since he had first started discovering the different experiences this plane had to offer, but the feeling of running his fingers through his feathers still ranks as one of his favorites. It had been a necessary and comforting sensation he'd relied on to get through several difficult time periods on Earth (such as the time right after the Fall of Man, when Earth had suddenly become abrasive towards all of its inhabitants in ways it hadn't been before, or in the aftermath of several tragedies that left Aziraphale feeling hopeless and stretched thin, and of course in the most recent period of humanity's technological advancements that saw the introduction of so many sensory onslaughts that left Aziraphale unsettled and overwhelmed).
Through it all, grooming was something rote and familiar that he could return to: the little changes in texture and feedback on his fingers, the careful knocking of feathers loose or back into place, the gentle scratch of his nails against his skin, it's all very lovely. Combined with things like the gentle sway of his body back and forth, the pressure of his body on top of his legs curled beneath him, or the vibrations of a pleased hum in his throat, Aziraphale might even go so far as to call it divine.
The best way to do it, however, is when he curls his wings around himself; the massive wall of bone and muscle blocking out light and stimuli and noise until all that is left are warmth and the brush of his fingertips over downy feathers.
(Sometimes he keeps these, once they've fallen out. He stores them here and there - in books, or drawers, or in the pockets of his coat - and brings them out when his wings cannot be so that he can smooth them out with the pads of his fingers and brush them over the thin skin of his corporation's lips. Little pieces of comforting sensations to tide him over until he can get the full experience.)
The only downside is, of course, that it's terribly easy to lose track of time, and even easier than that to be caught unawares, hidden away like he is in the comfort of his own body.
So it's startling - though perhaps not so surprising - when he's interrupted by the careful tap of someone else's fingers against the outside of his wings.
"Hate to interrupt," Crowley says as Aziraphale uncurls his wings and peers up at him curiously, looking not unlike a disheveled bird. "But we did have plans, didn't we?"
"Oh, we did," Aziraphale assures him guiltily, tucking his wings back further. "I'm terribly sorry. I was just in the middle of - and I must have lost track of time."
He knows what he should say. The way this all should go is that Aziraphale should apologize and get himself together as quickly as possible so that he and Crowley can go to dinner the way they had planned to already be doing.
The problem is that Aziraphale isn't quite ready to do that yet.
Beyond the typical willingness to simply continue on as he had been, there's also the matter of being interrupted. He's hardly irritated at Crowley for it - no, the problem lies entirely in the fact that he hadn't adjusted or planned to stop, and he can feel the unevenness of his wings - one more full and sated by sensation than the other - terribly acutely. To try and go to dinner now would surely be the start of a terrible time, Aziraphale wouldn't be able to focus on anything except for the uncomfortable disparity, which is the last thing he wants.
Something of this struggle must show on his face - or perhaps in the guilty twist of his fingers now that his wings have been pulled back far enough to expose his hands - because Crowley makes a little amused noise in his throat and says, "You want to keep going, don't you?"
"Well I can hardly just stop midway," Aziraphale replies, only a little defensively. He's gotten better at differentiating between Crowley's friendly teasing and the other angel's biting mocking, but old habits die hard sometimes.
(Although, Crowley was often the one who had found Aziraphale during the worst of it, the one who had helped him away from the prying eyes of humans and into quieter and more isolated spaces where the angel could shy away and hide from the sensory input that had become too much for him to process. Had stayed with him while he calmed down and helped him recover after it was over. None of the other angels have ever done anything like that for Aziraphale.)
"You've got a point there," Crowley says, and Aziraphale catches sight of his fond smile when he can force his eyes up high enough to see. "I don't mind waiting if you want to keep going. My back is acting up tonight anyway."
Looking properly, Aziraphale can see it - in the careful way the demon is holding his body and shifting his weight. Crowley always has tended to push himself much harder than he needs to - further than he'd ever recommend Aziraphale push himself - he might not have said anything if he wasn't trying to help Aziraphale feel better about delaying.
There are heat packs somewhere in the bookshop (some that Crowley had brought over himself, and others that Aziraphale hadn't been able to resist buying once he knew that Crowley could use them. Their bright coloring and cutesy patterns garner a lot of verbal complaints, but Aziraphale is certain that Crowley likes them despite it all), but they're much too far away for Aziraphale to be willing to let either of them retrieve.
He can think of another option, however.
After all, if warmth and comfort are what Crowley needs, then he has the perfect solution.
When Crowley turns to go sit on the other couch, Aziraphale reaches out to stop him. Unsure of how to verbalize it, or even father enough confidence to start trying in the first place, he merely tugs Crowley's hand until the demon is within reach again.
"Angel?" Crowley asks, his voice leaning more towards 'endearingly amused' than 'confusedly irritated', which bolsters Aziraphale's confidence a bit.
Unfortunately, continuing to pull until Crowley has gotten the message is not a sustainable method of communication, since it's just as likely to set his arms off hurting as it is to worsen his back pain, so Aziraphale is going to have to use his words to some extent.
"Would you like to join me?" he asks, shifting his gaze from their linked hands (his own, slightly dusty from his feathers, and Crowley's, slightly swollen - an unfortunately familiar sight) to the bottom edge of Crowley's glasses, close enough to his cheekbone to catch the small burst of color that blooms there.
Crowley lets out a little strangled noise in response. "What, you want help?"
"No," Aziraphale says truthfully. "I just thought you might like to sit. I might like it if you sat, with me," he adds, because he is just enough of a bastard to know and take advantage of the fact that Crowley is more likely to allow himself to accept the offer based off of that sentiment alone.
He flushes terribly, but sure enough, Crowley steps forward into the canopy of Aziraphale's wings and lets himself be lowered down with the angel's help until the curve of his spine is pressed against the heat of Aziraphale's stomach. They spent a moment fidgeting around each other, getting comfortable, until Crowley is content and hiding his overheated face in the crook of Aziraphale's neck (ducking his head without being asked so that Aziraphale won't have to feel the sensation of too-light breaths against his skin) and Aziraphale has cocooned them both in the shelter of his wings.
Aziraphale sets back to work, combing his fingers happily through his fingers, even more content with the weight of his demon in his lap. Crowley relaxes in increments, the relief of being off his feet and the heat of Aziraphale's presence working together to take the edge off the sharp ache in his bones.
They might have to get up later, might have other plans and responsibilities to get back to, might not be able to stay here forever.
But right now, with each other, neither could possibly be more comfortable.