Chapter Text
It was a chilly winter night in Soho, icicles beginning to form on the windowsills of Aziraphale’s bookshop as snow accumulated on his old-fashioned “CLOSED” sign. Aziraphale, dressed in his usual beige coat and anachronistically tartan bowtie, indulged himself in the comfort and warmth of his wooly couch, a maroon blanket draped over his lap. Albeit cozy, he’d been feeling unusually cold that night, the hairs on his forearm sticking up mischievously.
Sniffling softly, he held the handset of his rotary phone firmly, before swiftly angling his head towards the receiver as he leaned an elbow on the nearby nightstand.
“D’ya think time travel’sss real, angel?” The man over the phone slurred, his obvious inebriation peeking through the intonations of his words. A little taken aback by the sudden question, Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle fondly at Crowley’s childlike curiosity, the wrinkles near his twinkling eyes deepening with adoration. Nonetheless, he took the question seriously, and pondered for a few seconds.
“I mean, I suppose it could be possible. Humans are really getting smarter and smarter, aren’t they, my dear?” Aziraphale replied, recalling a short chat he’d shared with Einstein back in the 1900s over a spot of tea, over the possibility of time travel. It was an undoubtedly stimulating one, and led to him ending the conversation with a frivolous swish of the hand, ensuring Einstein would make the most use out of his intellect with the little help of an angelic miracle. He couldn’t help it - he loved seeing what wonders humans could create once they truly unleashed their potential for the great world to see. It was beautiful.
“Yeah, some jobless bloke’s probably already made a Tardis and hid it in his backyard or sssomething,” Crowley drawled, fatigue creeping up on him.
“Oh, Crowley, you’re being silly.” Fiddling with the telephone cord, Aziraphale bit his lip to stifle a laugh. His nose had gotten a little runny though, so he reflexively reached out for the over-intricately decorated tissue box on his nightstand, pulling out a few sheets to wipe the moisture off his reddening nose.
“Calling a demon ‘silly’ isn’t good for his pride, y’know,” Crowley retorted mock-defensively, suppressing the satisfaction he’d found in amusing his angel.
He’d thought of an, in his very humble opinion, intelligent quip to Crowley’s remark, but his train of thought was abruptly interrupted by a tingling sensation in his nose. Sneezing into the already crumpled tissue rested on his palm, he instinctively turned away from the handset, hoping Crowley hadn’t heard him.
“Angel, was that a sneeze?” Crowley had meant for it to come off as cheeky and taunting, but his genuine worry bled through his words, like an ink blot on paper.
“Well, er, I guess so.”
“Angels don’t sneeze,” Crowley began, letting a few seconds of silence fill the atmosphere. “Wait, do they?”
“I don’t know, dear. But, not to worry, I’ll be all tickety-boo in no time. It’s just the weather, you see, icy all around,” Aziraphale remarked, his tone a smidge too polite and formal for the situation.
“My corporation’s merely, er, responding to the changes-” He had begun, before another sneeze so rudely punctuated his sentence.
The muffled mucus-filled sniffles were loud enough to be transmitted to the other end of the phone, the worry in the demon’s chest rising, pounding on his ribs.
“‘m coming over,” Crowley said matter-of-factly, hoping Aziraphale couldn’t somehow sense that both his legs are anxiously bouncing at breakneck speed.
Instinctively, Aziraphale furrowed his eyebrows, completely unprepared for the prospect of his best friend showing up at his doorstep, let alone when he’s in this rather, well, unappealing state. “Dear boy, please do be assured that this is very likely just a common co-”
A pained groan (presumably from Crowley sobering up), followed by mechanical whirring sound of what was, unmistakably, the Bentley driving off cut him off. Sighing, he placed the handset back on its hook, shaking his head fondly as he pressed his lips together. He burrowed his increasingly warm face in his hands (whether that was caused by his illness or Crowley’s kind gesture, he’ll never know), a gooey smile weakly blooming over his visage.
“Oh, Crowley.”
~~~~~~~~~~
With the help of a timely demonic miracle, after exactly 7 minutes and 33 seconds, the demon (a really unfitting name considering what he’d just done for a mere ill angel, but I digress) showed up in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop’s tainted glass doors and rang the bell, not noticing that he’d been nervously pacing around until he’d felt a faint twinge in his joints.
“Angel, I’m here!”
Valiantly, he tried to maintain his composure before the other man got here, plastering on a feigned smile, before it started faltering at the mere mental image of Aziraphale being too frail to even answer the door. The hand with which he held a paper bag of the angel’s favourite teas, and some cold medication, all of which he swiftly miracled up as soon as he’d gotten into the driver’s seat, began trembling a little too, his fingertips unpleasantly tingly. Oddly, it mirrored how Crowley’s plants always shivered whenever he shouted at them - except the demon himself was the anxious one now.
He was more than relieved that his signature pair of sunglasses were perched on top of his nose bridge - a veil thick enough to mask his visibly troubled visage, enough to let him clutch onto a flimsy calm facade.
It was embarrassing really, Crowley thought, to be this affected by him getting a small cold.
“Probably some unhealthy codependent thing,” he joked, though not entirely doubting his words. He wasn’t used to such open vulnerability (though this wasn’t exactly ‘open’). Perfunctorily, he adjusted the lapels of his sleek leather jacket, hoping to busy himself with something that would distract his own morbid imagination. Inexorably, his impatience rose.
While waiting, he’d, without realising, begun to spiral, reflecting on the absolute chokehold this mere angel had him in. He’d grown accustomed to seeing Aziraphale on the weekly, if not daily, basis, their enchanting albeit short encounters being one of the only things he (had ever) looked forward to. Not to mention the visceral feelings he’d been harbouring for him, and repressing, all this time, convinced the angel wouldn’t even consider the prospect of getting with a demon, let alone loving one.
Since the day they’d met in Eden, Crowley had always firmly believed that Heaven would always hold a higher place than Crowley’s friendship, though he’d always hoped it’d blossom into more, ever would. Nonetheless, being the lovesick bastard he was, Crowley had continued helplessly pining for the angel’s affection, despite knowing fate, their respective factions - and probably Aziraphale himself - would forever be against his feelings ever being reciprocated.
Crowley had been a demon, after all, even if he were, once, a heavenly being like Aziraphale. The angel would never fall in love with a fallen one, he’d constantly reminded himself. He knew, with utmost conviction, that even if Aziraphale even had an idea of the feelings he’d harboured for him, that he’d never look past his life of sin, that he wouldn’t risk falling into a bubbling pit of sulphur and hellfire just to love him.
A vicious gust of wind suddenly jolted him back to reality, the cold making the hairs on his skin stand up.
“Where are you, angel?” He continued pacing back and forth on the snow-covered terrace, shoes crunching against the pale snow, heart pounding louder and louder with each step. A dreadfully thick minute of silence followed, the lack of response, or any implication that the angel even knew he was there, causing Crowley to mousily fidget with the handle of the paper bag. Restlessly, he teetered on one foot in an effort to get a better angle on every corner of the bookshop, hoping he’d catch a glimpse of his angel there. No one. Fuck.
“Aziraphale, I’m coming in!” Crowley blared, pushing the glass doors hastily as he barged into the bookshop, frantically surveying the area for even a trace of him, though it was futile.
“I’m here, at the back,” a trembling voice echoed through the musty walls. Hearing the faint tremor in his voice, Crowley’s pupils reflexively dilated from paper-thin slits to pitch black orbs, anxiety stinging every nerve on his skin. As quickly as he could, he hurriedly bolted to a small room hidden at the very back of the bookshop, a place only he and Aziraphale knew how to locate.
Bracing himself, Crowley delicately pushed open the already ajar wooden door, taking a tentative step into the room, feeling his pulse throb against his neck.
The walls were adorned with dreamlike paintings of flowers, others of rather artistic interpretations of biblical figures, towering mountains of antique books with wrinkled, yellow-tinted pages stacked on every hard surface. Beside the nightstand, there were two tufted leather couches surrounding a small ornate table, a heap of scrunched-up tissues scattered atop it, next to the box they came from. Aziraphale had definitely redecorated the room, and taken creative liberty with each embellishment, since the last time Crowley had visited.
Of course, the demon was far too distracted by the practically half-conscious cherub before him to notice any of these changes. Aziraphale’s condition had very visibly deteriorated in the past ten minutes at an almost impossibly rapid rate, his nose now tinged the same shade of a freshly ripened peach. Moisture prickled his eyes, the uncomfortable build-up of an imminent sneeze singeing the hairs in his nostrils. His blanket was now covering the entirety of his lower body, the slight vibrations of the fabric giving away the fact that he was shivering underneath it. Immediately, Crowley took a seat on the couch opposite Aziraphale, hunched forward to take a closer look at him.
“Oh dear, I’m-“ Aziraphale started apologetically, before grabbing a tissue and sneezing into it.
“I’m truly sorry, Crowley. You really shouldn’t have come all the way here. I’m a bit ill, yes, but I’ll get better shortly. I appreciate the thought, but there’s really no need for you to take care of me, dear boy,” he continued reassuringly, blowing into the same tissue after finishing his sentence.
“Aziraphale, there’s no way I’d leave you here in this state. For an angel to get sick, ‘s prob’ly really serious, eh? Can’t you miracle it away or something?” Crowley stared unwaveringly at the man weakly resting his head against the dense couch, nibbling on his lower lip nervously.
“I suppose I could, but Upstairs has been observing me lately, saying I’ve been ‘too reckless’ with my miracles. They said I’d only be entitled to perform a few for the time being, so I’m saving them for when someone really needs it,” Aziraphale replied, gently shutting his eyes to rest.
“Oh, angel, always so sanctimonious,” Crowley teased, before groping around behind his back for the paper bag he’d brought for Aziraphale. His fingers wrapping around the thin paper handle, he pulled it from behind him and placed it gingerly onto the table between them, the tips of his fingers still imperceptibly trembly.
“I’d offer to miracle you better, but you’d probably explode or something. Demonic miracles and angels, probably not a good mix,” he let out a breathy laugh.
“Anyways, I thought the best I could do is bring you your favourite teas and some of those cold meds from a pharmacy I drove past. Nicked it without paying, y’know, so it cancels out,” he made a vague gesture towards himself. “Demon, and all that.”
Briskly, he picked the bag up and jingled it in front of the angel like one would with keys in front of a baby, yearning for at least a grin or a nod, to know, have the assurance, that he was at least well enough to respond.
“Oh, I must really thank you, dear. Could I trouble you to make some tea for me now? I’m feeling awfully cold,” Aziraphale muttered, too tired to muster a smile.
“Of course,” the demon replied, his words tinged with sympathy for the poor angel. He miracled up a cup of chamomile, hoping Hell wouldn’t pounce on him for his frivolous miracles, either.
Cautiously passing the cup of tea to Aziraphale, he quietly watched as he lightly rested his fingers around the surface of the cup, his right hand delicately gripping onto the curved handle, reflexively jutting out a pinky, his posh mannerisms evoking a soft smirk from Crowley.
Wordlessly, Crowley immersed himself in the scene before him - Aziraphale contentedly taking a sip of the freshly, and miraculously, brewed tea, and promptly letting out a soft hum of satisfaction, the sound delightfully rumbly. The floral aroma wafted through the air, its warmth diffusing through the room.
Hand rested on his thighs, Crowley waited a few seconds, steeling himself to ask a rather loaded question.
“Angel?”
“Mm.”
“You wanna come over to my flat? It’s got a comfier bed for you to rest on. Your couch’s kind of screaming ‘back ache’, wouldn’t be too cozy, y’know,” Crowley found himself in the middle of a ramble, and wisely stopped himself there.
“Of course, I mean, it’s, um, only if you want to,” he added hesitantly, eyes darting to the wooden floorboards.
The tense silence that followed spurred Crowley to open his mouth, immediately prepared to take back whatever he’d said out of sheer impulse, an overwhelming sense of regret flooding every blood vessel in his system. Shit. He’d done it again, hadn’t he?
Always too bold, always too fast, always too much, the voice in his head droned incessantly, relentlessly banging on his skull as suffocatingly thick fumes of hatred swirled around in his chest, almost intoxicating amidst the seconds of silence - now thick as molasses.
Before he could say a word, though, Aziraphale set the teacup on the table solidly, with a muffled thump, sniffling as he shifted his head to face Crowley.
“I’d love to.”
~~~~~~~
After they headed out of the bookshop, Crowley chivalrously stepped forward to open the Bentley’s door for Aziraphale, beckoning for him to come in.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” Aziraphale whispered weakly, climbing into the newly polished car, admiring the pristine leather seats and the impossible clarity of the car windows, a truly stark contrast to the vintage aesthetic of his own bookshop.
Sensing the exhaustion in his voice, Crowley immediately summoned Aziraphale’s tartan blanket from earlier with the swift wave of a hand, pinching the ends with his slender fingers.
“Lie down, angel, I don’t mind.”
Feebly, Aziraphale did as told, albeit rather tentatively, unsure if he would be overstepping his boundaries (as if Crowley had any that he wouldn’t want the cherub to cross in the first place). Tenderly, Crowley unfurled the blanket and delicately spread it over the angel’s body, careful with each movement. A lush cushion of a deep violet hue materialised in Crowley’s hands, before he lightly lifted Aziraphale’s head up, and slotted the pillow between his head and the car seat.
“Mm,” Aziraphale hummed, lethargy overcoming his ability to express his immense gratitude verbally. Instead, he settled with gently nuzzling his fluffy, disheveled curls against the hand Crowley had used to rest his head atop the pillow, a pleased, albeit tired, sigh escaping from his dry, cracked lips.
The unprecedented contact caused a blush to immediately spread across Crowley’s face, the apples of his cheeks getting redder, and warmer, by the second. A tingle crept up from the hand Aziraphale’s curls had touched, sending goosebumps racing through every part of his skin.
“Ngk,” Crowley blurted out, too flustered to fully register what was going on, his mouth agape. It was humiliating, really, for him to feel almost suffocated by the palpable tension and undying heat engulfing him, while Aziraphale remained blissfully unaware of the inner havoc he’d just wreaked. Idly averting his gaze to his boots, the demon tried his best to brush the feeling off, convincing himself that there was nothing deeper than the angelic nature to give thanks behind his gesture, and there never would be anything more to it.
“I, um, I’ll start driving now,” Crowley mumbled, although Aziraphale had already dozed off by then. He tried his best to close the car door as silently and slowly as he could, careful not to wake the peaceful angel. Taking a deep breath in a lousy attempt to rid himself of the maelstrom of emotions whirling around in his palpitating heart, he hopped into the driver’s seat, and drove them to his Mayfair flat.
~~~~~~~~
When they got to his flat, Aziraphale had been far too tired to really comprehend what was going on. He’d barely been able to get up, and only made it to Crowley’s doorstep because he had an arm lazily linked around the demon’s neck, blearily hobbling forward aimlessly till they reached their destination. Crowley didn’t mind, though. Bloody adorable, he thought.
~~~~~~~~
“Angel, I’ll help you get in bed,” Crowley offered warmly, an arm looped around the angel’s waist in an attempt to steady his gait. Still disoriented, Aziraphale nodded groggily, gazing up at Crowley with misty, sunken eyes, conveying a million words of gratitude through those few silent seconds.
“Bloody cold,” Crowley cursed resentfully, masking his worry with frustration, hoping that he’d get better soon.
They eventually made it to Crowley’s bedroom, admittedly with much difficulty, where he subtly motioned for Aziraphale to lie down.
Closing his eyelids, Aziraphale lay on the velvety, black sheets, his weight wrinkling the perfectly ironed fabric. Wordlessly, Crowley tucked him in, enveloping him in the comfort of his blankets, before placing his tartan one beside him too. “Thank you,” the angel said in a hushed whisper, before promptly drifting into a deep state of much-needed sleep.
“M’ gonna take care of you, angel,” Crowley muttered to himself, placing his hand on his head to check for a fever. Heat rushed from his head to Crowley’s palm like a searing pan to the touch, as worry flashed in his golden serpentine eyes, fortunately obscured by his sunglasses.
Reflexively, he darted to the bathroom to run the tap over a fluffy white towel, wringing some of the excess water out of it before softly leaving it on top of Aziraphale’s forehead, hoping to provide him at least a sliver of relief.
For the next seven hours and forty seven minutes, Crowley sat by Aziraphale’s side in a rather uncomfortable armchair, monitoring him closely and waking him up every few hours to feed him his medication. Aziraphale winced at the revolting taste of the herbal syrup each time, which Crowley found rather endearing, but didn’t let it show, wisely.
It was funny, Crowley thought, the prospect of a literal immortal being having to take human medication for the sake of his corporation’s mere wellbeing, just because a selfless cherub didn’t want to waste his miracles on himself.
“Something only you’d do,” Crowley sighed to himself, dimples faintly appearing on his cheeks as streaks of sunshine gradually began to shine through his bedroom blinds.
He then spent the following hour, before Aziraphale awoke, researching the best recipes for an apple pie, featured as one of the “Top Ten Desserts to Bake for a Sick Loved One”, a website Crowley had found after scouring through dozens. He cringed at the title, but he really couldn’t find any other more promising recipes, and he really was getting desperate.