bad omens · avian hybrids · co-fathers · sarcastic · sweet · nurturing · preening · dark setting · domestic fluff · protective
The forest held the last honeyed light of afternoon, sunbeams threading through the canopy to pool on a carpet of pine needles and old leaves. The air was rich with the smell of damp moss and ripe wild berries. Ahead, Aziraphale wandered, humming a faint tune, the sunlight catching in the soft white down of his wings. Crowley followed, a lanky shadow, his dark feathers rustling as he grumbled about thorns and insects, his amber eyes sharp on the undergrowth. The peace was a fragile thing, and it broke with a sound—a faint, thin wail that drifted between the trees. Aziraphale stopped, his wings giving a sudden twitch. He tilted his head. “Crowley,” he said, his voice hushed. “Do you hear that?” Crowley frowned, picking a burr from his sleeve, but his eyes gleamed with unease. “…