Peter was late. At least an hour late. And by late that was taking into account Peter-time.
This wasn’t something that was unusual these days. Peter hadn’t been great in that regard before the bite, but now he was a million times worse. It didn’t even matter if Ned had seen him only five minutes before hand, Peter made arriving late an art form. Ned understood why that was of course. He was the guy-in-the-chair and he was going to support Spiderman as long as he had too. But it didn’t make waiting any more fun.
Ned glanced at the clock again. It had definitely been over an hour now. The new Lego set he’d gotten for his birthday was staring at him, taunting him, just begging to be opened. But Peter was just as excited about this set too, and Peter had promised he’d be here.
“Where are you Peter?” He muttered under his breath, the frustration pouring out of him.
Usually when he was going to be super late Peter would get his suit lady to at least message him. Well sometimes anyway, about six times out of ten. And that part sucked too, because it meant he didn’t know if the lack of message was because Peter had gotten distracted, was in the middle of saving someone, hurt, or had just plain forgotten. Maybe he needed to get his hands on the suit again and find a way to force Karen to update him a bit more often.
It was a better plan then trying to get Peter to see sense.
I’m almost at the 1-year anniversary of my first Spider-Man sickfic/whumpfic, so I thought I’d make a new master list to see how far I’ve come! All except for fic numbers 1, 31, and 32 are prompts that were sent to me! (Bolded are my favorites!)
1. this one here is my very first and it has Ned slipping up to Stark Tower to talk to Tony bc Peter’s sick and won’t listen to him. Cue Tony doing work like the dad he is
2. this one has Peter sick and trying to hide it from Tony but he fails and Tony takes him back to the tower and to med-bay
3. this one has Peter diving into an icy river during a solo battle because he thought it would be a good idea for a sneak attack. he thought wrong
4. this one has Peter getting stabbed during battle and the Tonester has a device that alerts him when this happens and he has to suit up and go to the rescue
5. this one has Peter rolling up to a meeting even though he’s sick, and he ends up throwing up during the meeting. poor dude
6. this one has Peter telling Tony that he wasn’t hurt from battle but then he falls and surprise surprise– he did get hurt, much to his and Tony’s surprise
7. this one has Peter having to ask Tony for some ibuprofen, more than once bc Tony’s mind is elsewhere. (Note: this is one of my favorites, and I couldn’t tell you why.)
8. this one has awkward dad Tony not knowing what to do when he finds out Peter is sick after the kid starts crying from being frustrated
9. so this one has Peter staying overnight at Stark Tower and he ends up getting sick and has to go to Tony for help
10. this one right here as Peter getting sick while spending the night with Steve and Bucky for the first time (ft. Stucky)
11. this bad boy right here has Peter taking an unplanned dip in the Hudson and getting really really sick from it– so much that unofficial dad has to pick him up from school (Note: another favorite)
12. this one has Peter popping one too many ibuprofen pills and Tony thinks the kid’s gotten into drugs
13. this one has Peter stopping by Steve and Bucky’s apartment during a nightly patrol, and whoops, he’s sick– enough to have Steve and Bucky stepping up like the doting uncles they are
14. this one has Peter acting a little strange and Sam’s like ‘what the hell is wrong with you kid?’ but then he realizes that the kid has a fever
15. this one has Tony and Steve low-key disagreeing on how to take care of a sick Peter
16. this one is a mix up! Peter saves Tony for once instead of Tony saving Peter
17. this one here is a little drabble with Peter getting injured and Tony’s there to dad his way through life like usual
18. this one here has a miserably sick Peter and Ned comes through for ya boy
19. this one is another mix-up! Ned’s sick and Peter forgoes his patrol to help take care of him
20. this one has Peter on a mission despite having a high-key upset stomach
21. this one has Tony giving not good dad advice and advising Peter to push through is ‘small illness’ so he does but it gets worse and Steve finds out and is very much not happy (Note: A favorite!)
22. this one has Peter dipping out of a meeting bc his stomach just isn’t having it, and Steve goes to comfort him
23. this one has stressed Peter crying and it freaks Tony out so he calls Ned for help
24. this one right here has Tony knowing Peter’s sick before Peter does bc Tony’s a good dad and he just knows things
25. this one has Peter patrolling late on an autumn night and he winds up sick and Tony’s like “you didn’t use the heater in your suit because??”
26. this has sick Peter and sick Steve and Bucky’s gotta take care of the 2 idiots (ft. Stucky)
27. this one has Peter passing out at Stark Tower and the only one there to help is Thor
28. this one is another mix-up! Tony’s sick and Peter’s low-key freaking out bc the man is old and needs to stop pushing himself
29. this one has sick Peter being left on the quinjet during a mission and the only person with him is Loki, who ends up having to high-key save Peter’s life (Note: I LITERALLY LOVE THIS ONE!)
30. this one has Tony accidentally hurting Peter during training and he feels guilty and the two have some real talk while Peter’s in med-bay
31. this one is a pre-IW spoiler free drabble of Peter expressing his desire to be an Avenger to Tony– enough to make Tony promise him he can be one one day
32. this one is a post-IW drabble with spoilers where Tony has a panic attack when Peter’s sick and tells him that he “doesn’t feel so well)
33. this one is Peter and Tony captured and Peter gets sick from a wound that won’t heal and Tony starts to grow desperate to get them out (Note: Another favorite!)
34. this one is a spoilery fic where the events of IW are Tony’s fever dream, and he wakes up freaked out and skypes Peter at like 3 am (Note: I think this one is in my top 3, and it may be my number 1 in my top 3)
35. this one is a spoilery IW fic where Peter wakes up inside the soul stone
36. this one has Peter and Tony at Stark Tower, and Peter tries to tell Tony that he’s sick, but Tony’s distracted and doesn’t listen until Peter passes out
37. this one is just a little drabble where Tony talks to Steve about how much he cares about Peter, not knowing that Peter’s secretly listening
38. this one has Peter trying to deal with being Spider-Man while having chronic pain
39. this one is a spoilery angst-filled post-IW Tony and Peter reunion fic with a lot of crying
40. this one has Peter having to stay behind from a mission to watch Loki but he’s sick and Loki ends up having to take care of him (Note: I ALSO REALLY LOVE THIS ONE!)
41. this one is Captain Dad and Spider-Son where Peter tries to impress cap and messes up a mission and the Daily Bugle posts an article about it
42. this one recounts the times May, MJ, Ned, and Tony all help Peter work through stress from finals in different ways
ive recently become obsessed with g/ood/ o/mens (especially c/rowley) so here’s a little 2.2k cold fic i wrote!
if anyone is interested in exchanging snzcanons/writing prompts lmk! also my inbox is open if anyone has requests :)
with that said, enjoy! (sorry for any grammatical or spelling errors- i only proofread this once)
Crowley had been having a truly awful day; First, he’d woken up with a splitting headache and a throat like sandpaper.
Then, much to his disapproval, he realized that his newest plant had attracted fruit flies.
After spending a good ten minutes swatting at various flies, he gave up, huffing in resignation and making a mental note to buy fly traps. His throat burned too badly for him to yell at the plant, but he assured it that there would be a punishment.
Eventually, Crowley took to sitting at his desk and glaring at the flies buzzing around, slamming a book on any fly that dared to land on his desk.
And - most annoyingly - Crowley kept sneezing. At first, the demon didn’t mind. A few sneezes here and there weren’t uncommon, but it proved to be more than just a few.
As Crowley was snuffling into his sleeve, the black phone on his desk rang harshly. The demon sniffed deeply and cleared his throat, ignoring the painful burning sensation, “Hello?” he drawled, interally cursing the obvious congestion in his voice.
“Hello dear,” Aziraphale’s voice sounded through the phone, and Crowley grinned; he would always be happy to hear from the angel, regardless of how shitty he might feel, “I was wondering if I could ask for a favor,” he explained, sounding sheepish.
Crowley’s surprise was evident as he replied, but his response was genuine nonetheless, “Of course, always.”
As Crowley answered, he felt a faint burning sensation form in the back of his sinuses. He pressed a finger against his septum, hoping to quell the itch.
“Well you see,” Aziraphale started explaining his predicament- something to do with the way his books were arranged- as the burning sensation moved towards the front of Crowley’s nose, making his nostrils quiver with anticipation.
The demon quickly pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger to squash a sneeze into complete silence, cringing as his vision blurred momentarily. He released his nose, sniffing experimentally and feeling relieved that the single stifle was enough to quell the itch.
“-So I was wondering if you’d like to come to the shop and lend a hand?,” Aziraphale proposed, “I just got the loveliest merlot!”
“Well, I can’t say no to a nice bottle of wine, can I?” Crowley replied, but both he and Aziraphale knew he’d go regardless of whether or not there was wine; as long as his angel was there.
“Splendid!”
Crowley could practically hear Aziraphale’s smile through the phone, “I’ll be there at seven,” he said before fumbling to hang up the phone. He pitched to the side, a sneeze suddenly tearing through him.
“hh’HRRTDSCH!”
He scowled at the spray that landed on his lap, unable to cover in time, “Fugk me,” he groaned.
Crowley glanced at his watch: 5:42. ‘How is it already that late?’ he thought, wondering how many hours he’d spent sitting at his desk in a feverish haze.
He knew that he should start getting ready, but his body seemed to have other ideas. The demon was suddenly all too aware of the way his legs and feet throbbed, even as he sat; his body ached, his nose felt raw, and his head felt like it could explode at any moment.
He groaned, leaning his head against the cool, sleek desk and letting his eyes fall shut. It took everything in him to get up and saunter over to the bathroom.
“hh-,” Crowley’s breath started hitching as he peeled off his shirt, tossing it to the side and tugging off his pants. As he was taking off his boxers, he pitched forwards with a small onslaught of sneezes, “hH’ITSCHH! heHSZCHEW! heh- hh… HRRSCHHh!”
The sneezes left him panting, bent over at the waist with one hand placed on a nearby wall for support. He clambered into the shower, turning it as hot as possible and letting the water run over his face.
The demon rubbed harshly at his nose, which was already red and raw. Much to his dismay, the appendage twitched, nostrils flaring as the itch returned with a vengeance .
“Fu-heh-fuck…hhheH-EHTSHCIEW!”
He cringed at the mess that sprayed against his chest, blowing his nose productively as the steam loosened the congestion in his sinuses.
Luckily, Crowley managed to make it through the rest of the shower without sneezing- which was quite the accomplishment: his colds have always been accompanied with relentless sneezing.
As soon as Crowley stepped out of the shower, he started shivering. He scowled, pulling on a turtleneck and some black pants; he had decided against wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, despite his desire to feel comfortable.
He glanced at his watch again: 6:19
He was in the shower for longer than he’d realized, enjoying the burning heat of the water. Unfortunately, it hadn’t occurred to him that standing in a hot shower for half an hour would only make his fever worse.
He slumped into his seat, rubbing at his temples and removing his glasses. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby mirror and cringed. He was visibly sick, and he was sure Aziraphale would notice. He considered calling the angel and canceling, but that wasn’t truly what he wanted (what he wanted, of course, was his angel).
“heh-hh,” Crowley’s breath hitched wildly as the itch suddenly returned, head rearing back and nostrils flaring, “hhhehHITSCHHh!” He snapped forwards with a powerful, unrestrained sneeze, barely managing to cover in time, “fugk me.”
After tending to his nose and washing his hands, he grabbed the keys to the Bentley.
The drive to the bookstore went by in a feverish haze. It was rather uneventful, except for the few times when the car was jerked into the other lane as Crowley bent double with a sneeze (or two).
It didn’t take long for Crowley to pull up in front of the bookshop, parking in his usual spot and clambering out. His head spun as he stepped out of the Bentley, and he had to lean against its black frame to stay upright.
Once he was sure he could stand on his own, he sauntered towards the bookshop, pushing the door open and hearing the familiar bell ring. He frowned when he realized he couldn’t smell; he’d always loved the smell of the store, though he would never admit that.
“I’m afraid we’re closed this evening,” Aziraphale called out in response to the bell’s chiming.
“Well, that’s a shame,” Crowley made a beeline for the plush red chair in the back of the bookstore.
“Oh! Crowley,” Aziraphale replied fondly, emerging from behind a bookshelf and grinning jovially. His smile faltered as he took in the demon’s appearance: his nose was red and bothered, his cheeks flushed, and his eyebags more prominent than usual.
As Crowley took a seat, Aziraphale busied himself with the tea kettle- Crowley was clearly in no condition for wine.
“So, what am I helping with?” Crowley asked, his voice raw and gravely.
‘Oh right, the favor,’ Aziraphale thought; He’d completely forgotten about his book organizing crisis after realizing Crowley was sick.
“It’s nothing, really. Muriel just had some free time and decided to reorganize all the books by color coordination,” despite Aziraphale’s annoyance, he still spoke of Muriel fondly; after all, they were intending to help.
Crowley laughed, which sparked a rough coughing fit, caught in his elbow, “S’cuse me,” he cleared his throat, feeling Aziraphale’s eyes observing him closely.
“Are you feeling alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly, not wanting to anger or embarass the demon. In fact, he wanted to do quite the opposite; it was taking every ounce of self control not to wrap Crowley in a blanket and tend to his every need.
But that wasn’t part of their arrangement. They were simply an angel and a demon, occasionally exchanging favors and enjoying fine dining at the ritz. Except their arrangement had changed. Their dinners often turned into late nights full of dancing, talking, and laughing. They both sensed the change, but neither mentioned it, not wanting to burst their perfect bubble.
“Never felt better,” Crowley replied, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. His statement was undermined as he sniffled wetly, his body determined to betray him.
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow questioningly, to which Crowley shrugged. The angel sighed, deciding not to push the topic any further.
“So, are we rearranging or not?” Crowley asked, gesturing to the color coordinated bookshelves- which, admittedly, looked pretty nice.
Aziraphale hesitated. As badly as he wanted to reorganize his books, it was clear that Crowley was in no condition, “No, no I don’t think so. I wouldn’t want to undo Muriel’s hard work,” he excused.
Crowley was too distracted by a blooming itch in his nose to notice the angel’s obvious excuse, “hh,” despite his best efforts to quell the itch, his breath started hitching. Aziraphale nearly cooed, but he restrained himself for Crowley’s sake.
“hUTSCHHhew! hh-H’GNZTCH!”
“Bless you,” Aziraphale blessed him out of habit, a seemingly harmless act.
Crowley cursed, ducking back into his elbow, “hKISCHHh! ITSSCHHew!”
“Oh dear, bl-,” Aziraphale started, but Crowley cut him off, speaking through a desperate hitching breath.
“St-heh-stopheh- hhHTSCHH stop it with the blessings,” Crowley snapped, followed by an immediate pang of guilt at Aziraphale’s expression.
“I’m so sorry! I completely forgot about that,” he paused, searching for the right word, “peculiarity of yours.”
He learned early on in their relationship that blessing Crowley simply resulted in more sneezing, but blessing people came so naturally to him, he often did it without thinking.
“It’s alright angel,” Crowley waved a dismissive hand.
“Are you quite sure you’re feeling-,” Aziraphale started, but he was interrupted by the wailing of the tea kettle. Crowley was grateful for the distraction. As Aziraphale turned away to make tea, he used his sleeve to tend to his running nose.
Aziraphale returned a minute later with two cups of tea, smiling warmly as he set one beside Crowley.
“I thought you had a bottle of merlot?” Crowley asked, but he honestly didn’t care: wine would likely make him feel worse.
“Yes, well. We can enjoy that another time,” Aziraphale replied fondly, “But I’m in the mood for tea.”
Crowley rolled his eyes beneath his shades, but he tried the tea nonetheless. It soothed his throat, and he took a second sip, feeling his body relax slightly as the discomfort in his throat lessened.
As he continued drinking his tea, Crowley began to realize how truly miserable he felt; he hadn’t had a cold this bad in ages.
He rushed to set down his tea as a prickling sensation formed in the back of his nose. Aziraphale, noticing his hitching breath, placed a comforting hand on his back. Initially, Crowley tensed under the touch, a low hiss escaping him.
“h’MPDzXt” The stifle grated against his sore throat, and did nothing to please the burning in his sinuses.
Aziraphale rubbed small patterns along Crowley’s back, admiring his somewhat toned physique as his breath continued hitching, “don’t hold them in darling,” he instructed, voice soft.
Crowley whined, rubbing harshly at the itchy appendage. Aziraphale sighed sympathetically, “it’s not going to help if you do it like that.”
“St-heh-stuck,” Crowley managed to say between hitching breaths. It was quite the spectacle: his mouth was ajar, eyebrows knit together, breath hitching, and nose twitching. As sympathetic as Aziraphale was, he also found himself rather attracted to the demon, who seemed entirely helpless as he succumbed to the fit.
“hH-IDZCHUw!-ITSXHHh!”
The double came quickly, bending the demon over into cupped hands.
“heh-hRRSCHHU!”
Crowley was left panting and snuffling into cupped hands, unsure if the fit was truly over.
“You poor thing,” Aziraphale scooted closer to Crowley, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and tucking it into Crowley’s grasp. One of the angel’s hands settled on Crowley’s thigh, an expression of comfort for the sickly demon.
Crowley accepted the handkerchief, cleaning himself up before resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.
“Why don’t you stay here tonight,” Aziraphale prompted, “I can take care of you.”
Crowley hesitated, his instincts told him to go: a demon shouldn’t need to be taken care of. Aziraphale sensed this and quickly corrected, “plus, I could use the company. It would be a favor to me, really.”
Crowley considered this, knowing Aziraphale was just being courteous. After a few seconds, he sighed, “Alright, you win angel. I’ll stay.”
Aziraphale smiled widely, “Splendid. I’ll get us some more tea,” he made to stand, but Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel’s waist, holding him in place.
Aziraphale blushed, “Uhm, Crowley. Would you mind-.”
The demon cuts him off, voice tired and gravely, “Yes, I would.” He tightens his grip around the angel, burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck and letting the fatigue he’d been fighting set in.
“Okay darling,” Aziraphale agreed, settling in and running his fingers through Crowley’s hair.
It didn’t take long for the demon to fall asleep, and eventually, Aziraphale found himself dozing off as well. They stayed curled up on the couch all evening, the angel watching over his sick ‘friend’ carefully.
that’s all for now! i’ll likely write more for the in/effable h/usbands (im more comfortable writing c/rowley as the snzer, but if anyone has prompts with a/ziraphale, i’d be happy to try)
gomens spoilers-ish but I'm not putting stuff under cuts anymore lol but I am tagging as go/od om/ens s2 so if you still need to block, that's it <3
I'm back to thinking about Crowley having a cold while living in his car, and I'm ignoring the pandemic lmao, but anyway he gets like this absolutely wretched cold, like he's wrecked by it, like he's trying to sleep it off by curling up in the front seat, it's so pathetic and tragic. And since Az doesn't know he's lost his flat and Crowley won't say anything Az just kinda tuts at him and hands him tea and suggests stocking up on handkerchiefs after he tells Crowley to come over so he can talk about something clever he did instead of, like, you know, insisting he stays.
I blame @snzsnchillz for letting this idea live rent free in my head. Please enjoy the resulting ficlet.
Spoilers for season 2 below
Grey clouds were rolling over London with the promise of a torrential downpour, but none of it was Crowley’s doing this time. As he was currently huddled across the front seats of the Bentley nursing the worst cold he’d had since the turn of the century.
“Huh…heh-heh-hahh…”
Tissues were held at the ready as his nostrils flared hard with each inhale.
“Hehh…ehh-oh for sssomebody’s sake come-heh-come on! Heh-EHH’ESSHhh! ISHHUh! ERSHHuhh! Hahh’ARSSUHHUhh!”
Fit finished al last he dropped the tissues into the growing pile on the floorboards and pulled the blanket back up around himself. A gift from Elspeth after she’d found her loom and hell trusted him enough to go topside again. It was frayed a bit on the edges now, but as soft as ever and a small comfort in his misery.
It also doubled as a tissue when they were just out of reach as Crowley suddenly bent over and coughed harshly.
The Bentley produced a small tray of lozenges on the dash.
“Thanks,” he said, taking two and popping them in his mouth.
As the medicine coated his throat Crowley leaned back against the pillows, classical music softly began warbling out of the speakers.
“It’s all right I miss him too,” he croaked, as the rain began pelting down on the roof.
The rain would never dare to enter his Bentley, but for old time’s sake he let his wings come out and lifted one up over himself just as Aziraphale had done for him during the first storm. And perhaps he had done it once too? It was hard to remember and he wasn’t about to try when his head was already aching. Still it muffled the sound of the tempest outside and made the air around him just a bit warmer.
It wasn’t the same, but at least he could pretend for a while.
So I mayyy have been inspired and tipsy. I blame this post for taking over my brain all day today. Below is my little G/ood O/mens ficlet. Contains major spoilers for season 2.
~
Hi. I’m God. Let’s move on.
Crowley has been sitting in his Bentley, pondering and sniffling, for the better part of a day. The problem with angels, Crowley has been sitting in his Bentley thinking, is they always think they know best. One particular angel is on his mind, of course. As he always is.
The problem with demons, on the other hand, is how stubborn they can be. He sniffles, pressing a crumpled tissue that he’s miracled from thin air to his pink, damp nose.
The problem with this particular demon is that he’s had six thousand years to learn how to turn his mentality into reality. And right now he’s feeling a little lovesick.
“hahhh’tiisschhooohh!”
Emphasis on lovesick.
You may be thinking—why did I make him this way? With the ability to ruin his own day, simply because he’s feeling a little off, emotionally?
Well, that’s because I’m ineffable.
“haahh… ISSCHHH’shheww!”
I must admit, though, I’ve never had any celestial being, angelic or demonic, make themselves lovesick to the point of illness. To be honest, most angels and demons don’t get lovesick.
Of course, my little starmaker has always been an exception.
“hih… hihhh… hh’tisshhh!” Crowley sneezes a third time, this time muffled and desperate into the balled up tissue.
It’s almost enough to make one feel sympathetic. Of course, then there’s my warrior of the Eastern Gate, Crowley’s other half. He’s up in heaven right now, sorting through six thousand-plus years of nonsensical paperwork and stifling back every emotion that’s threatening to overwhelm him.
“hh’gxxtt!”
Whereas Crowley, on the other hand, has progressed to actual stifling, in a fruitless effort to stop sneezing. “Lord,” he mutters, fiercely rubbing his nose into the sodden tissue, “I’m feeling a little targeted right now. Kicking me when I’m down, and all.”
If I were corporeal, this would be the moment I’d put my hand to my metaphorical heart in shock. The implication that I’d purposefully make a demon ill? To, what? Further his misery? He doesn’t need any help with that.
He sighs, once it’s becoming apparent that I’m still not going to answer. I’m ineffable that way. He flicks on the lights to the Bentley, preparing to drive away from the bookshop he’s been loitering in front of all day. The radio flickers on, crooning in Freddie Mercury’s dulcet tones.
“Love of my life, you’ve hurt me… you’ve broken my heart, and now you leave me…”
With a frustrated growl, Crowley shuts the radio off. That’s the thirtieth time the Bentley has played that song today. He’ll blame me for that, too, as he so often does. In truth, although I am responsible for Freddie’s miraculous range, Crowley is the one who controls what the Bentley plays.
“Could use some variety,” he grumbles. Obediently, Who Wants to Live Forever begins to play. Crowley hisses and goes to open the car door, pausing in the middle of the action to flinch in the direction of his elbow with another tightly-controlled, heavy stifle. “hh… hgxxtt!”
Once he manages to hold back the next sneeze and step out of the car, he goes to walk down the street. Perhaps for coffee, or a record, or even just to see two female humans enjoying a love he can’t have for himself. I made him nobly tragic that way—blame godly naivety. I thought, what’s more romantic than a starmaker beset by tragedy, who suffers through and soldiers on? Somewhat more depressing to actually observe it. In my defense, the story’s not over yet.
He hesitates, scrubbing at his nose, and his hand lingers on the Bentley door handle. I make a snap decision then—rare, for me—and give him a light nudge. He won’t even feel it.
Behind his shades, Crowley’s eyes flicker toward the bookshop, drawn to it. It’s empty right now, but he’s never needed an invitation. He strides right in, locks the door behind him with a hand wave of magic, and curls up in the loveseat he’d always claim whenever he visited Aziraphale. He sniffles, and I’m not sure it’s from illness just then.
My poor wily serpent. I’d almost feel bad. But all is working toward a greater end, if he can just be patient a while longer.
Crowley sighs, and his breath catches. He must finally be tired of stifling, because he lets the sneeze erupt into a wet, harsh, “hahh’ESSHHHIEEWWH!”
After he’s done sniffling, too tired to miracle up anymore tissues, his hand drops down by the chair and brushes the spine of a book left carelessly on the floor. He startles and glares down at it. “Wouldn’t happen if that angel were still here,” he mutters savagely. “Always kept the place annoyingly neat.”
Still, something draws him to lift the book and study it. Emma, by Jane Austen. The famous story of a matchmaker with a grand plan. His lip quirks, although he certainly isn’t smiling. “But nothing lasts forever,” he says softly, his eyes wide and wet behind those shades.
The book sits in his lap, cradled almost lovingly, as he finally drifts off to sleep, to rest off his self-induced cold. A sketched portrait of Miss Woodhouse smiles wryly, knowingly, up at Crowley from the cover of the book, the same kind of smile I often feel I would wear, if I had a face.
What can I say? I love to matchmake. Crowley will thank me, in the end.
finally finished the second part plus expansion of the plague rat fic.
roughly 9k, you've probably read most of it before. but I needed it out of my wips lol
Aziraphale calls Crowley a plague rat and it messes him up for, like, 300 years
"I always thought of myself as more of a city demon," Crowley muses over a mug of what the owner swore was the modest tavern’s finest ale.
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him over his spoonful of stew. "Always."
Crowley lazily stretches a hand up, gesturing for another two mugs to be brought over. "You know what I mean."
He stretches his legs out fully under their table, his ankles brushing against Aziraphale’s. "Can’t have a good skulk in the wheat," he explains, languid and relaxed.
"But this...‘s not so bad. Might even pick up a little vacation shack ‘round here." He grins, full of teeth and temptation, inviting Aziraphale to imagine a cozy life in this small town that, in 300 years or so, tourists will consider ‘quaint’.
"I hardly expect you’d think that if you spent some time around the common man." The angel’s tone doesn’t exactly admonish while he digs around for a small chuck of meat in his bowl to go with the bit of root vegetable already on his spoon, but it’s enough of a rebuke that Crowley draws his legs closer to himself. "It’s easy to get carried away when you spend all your time with the aristocracy."
"Come out to the manor house with me," Crowley asks around a mouthful of his drink. He leans on the table, trying to catch Azirpahale’s eye. "I’m sure you can find something to bless there."
For a moment Crowley thinks he can see Aziraphale wavering, can feel the desire pouring off of him, but then Aziraphale’s eyes skitter away and he primly dabs at the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
The conversation is over.
"I’m afraid I can’t," he says, and Crowley does detect a hint of actual disappointment. "I have my duties here-"
"Blessing the common man," Crowley finishes blithely. And, oh, there’s a bit more than a hint rolling off the angel now.
Aziraphale hasn't been happy with this assignment. Too vague, too aimless, too... out in the wheat. There are none of his usual interests here, just a loose direction that the town needs blessings. Crowley half thinks it’s just so heaven doesn’t hear from him for a few months.
It had been only dumb luck, as far as either of them could figure, that Crowley had also been assigned a long term temptation in the area. He was dealing with the local baron, and although he believed in trickle down demony, nothing he was up to figured heavily into the lives of anyone this far down the rungs.
Crowley stands, digging a more than generous amount of coin from his pocket and tossing it on the table. "I’m nearly done with my temptation, you know." He sees the crushing discontent flash over Aziraphale’s features before he pulls his face into pleasantly blank interest.
"Is that so?" Aziraphale inquires and brushes some imaginary dirt off the front of his clothing as he stands as well. "Heading back to London then?"
"I was thinking," Crowley hums. "Might hang around here, make some trouble." He tosses Aziraphale a wink. "Give you a wile or two to thwart."
A smile slips onto Aziraphale’s face before he realizes it shouldn’t be there. "Oh, you’re terrible," he scolds, a thrill sparkling in his eyes.
"Yeah, that’s what it says on my business card." Crowley smirks as he follows Aziraphale out into the evening air. "The Demon Crowley: Terrible."
Three weeks later, influenza is spreading through the town like wildfire.
Crowley’s been unwell before. Can’t hang around humans and not pick something up every so often, but this.. there's something thick and heavy and wrong about this, stealing his strength and leaving him rag doll limp across his straw stuffed bed that he rented in the common part of town, sticky and damp in a puddle of his own sweat.
They say that if you put a frog into a pot of water and set it to boil, the frog won’t notice until it’s too late. This, of course, isn’t true. A frog’s natural instinct is to thermoregulate before its life is in danger.
Crowley, having at times both more and less sense than a frog, is just now realizing he’s on a stove at all. Looking back, there were signs—a cough here, a sneeze there—and he thinks he even remembers Aziraphale sighing about doing a healing or two, but by now he’s well past simmering. Crowley is boiling and has his mind set on grabbing Aziraphale and running, leaving the town behind before it all really goes south. There’s no point in working against Pestilence and Death. The thought of Aziraphale suffering like this makes his chest ache worse. Crowley’s not even sure angels can fall ill, but if there’s a chance, he’s not willing to risk it out of some supposed moral obligation to one’s employers.
Crowley’s dry tongue flicks across his sweat salted lips. Aziraphale will insist on staying and on helping the less fortunate, so he’ll have to wile a bit to convince Aziraphale to leave. He always has to wile a bit. But certainly, when the angel sees what’s become of Crowley, he’ll understand.
They’ve had nice times together lately, almost friendly when neither one is in a mood, so Crowley can picture Aziraphales brows knitting together, reaching out a hand, and stopping just short of soothing Crowley’s burning skin.
"Oh no, you too?" he’ll say, his voice dripping with compassion.
And Crowley will have to protest to keep up appearances. "Oh, ‘s not too bad, angel." And then lightly cough. No need to seem overly dramatic. "Just an unfortunate turn of events, really."
Perhaps Aziraphale really will reach out then and find Crowley’s hand. "I suppose I really shouldn’t let any of Her creatures suffer, especially the unfortunate ones."
Crowley will nod, like Aziraphale said something so very wise. "You know, there’s a great little villa to rent just outside of town. Perfect place to be unfortunate in ‘til this blows over."
And then Aziraphale will be blessed with some common sense and go with him.
It’s so clear in Crowley’s hazy mind. He just needs to get up, find Aziraphale, and convince him that staying is not in the almighty’s plan. But first, he needs to close his eyes for a moment until the room stops spinning.
There’s a cool, comforting touch on his forehead, and nimble, busy fingers pulling through his hair. Crowley sighs, his body relaxing for the first time in days. He turns towards the feeling, chasing it, aching for more, and a soft, ethereal voice promises that he’ll feel better soon and that this won’t last forever. It assures him that it’s not hellfire licking at his body, that he’s not being pulled down into the pit, propped up for a performance review while his nose drips, shown off as an example of the perils of spending too much time with humans.
Crowley drags his eyes open, the room swimming in and out of focus as he tries to chase the dream, still feeling a phantom hand cupping his cheek. Shame and disappointment curl inside him, and he trembles. Aziraphale was never here. His angel hadn’t found him.
So Crowley hauls himself up, clinging to the meager specks of furniture, until he makes it through the door and onto the street.
He stumbles into Aziraphale by accident. The angel is letting himself out of someone’s home, and Crowley guesses that he’s been spending his time miracling people better. He looks tired but not unwell, and Crowley feels a surge of what might have been hope in anyone other than a demon.
Crowley expects a familiar warmth, but when Aziraphale turns and sees him leaning against the corner of the next home down, trying to look cool and casual and not like he’s seconds away from possibly literally coughing up one of his lungs, those warm eyes darken, and there's only barely contained disappointment and scorn.
"I should have known this was your doing, demon." Aziraphale spits so viciously that Crowley can’t help but flinch. "This is more than just a wile or two, Crowley," he says, stalking close to peer at the flush across his cheeks and his chafed, weeping nose with open disdain.
The revulsion emanating from him makes Crowley take a step back, putting space between him and the genuinely wrathful sounding angel. Some vague noises spill from his mouth, but anything understandable dissolves like ash on his tongue.
"These humans are dying," Aziraphale says, distressed, before the anger sets back in. "And you're playing the plague rat."
Aziraphale might as well have physically punched him with the way his chest tightens and stomach clenches at the accusation. He steps back again, body shaking, feverish mind working through what he did wrong, and wondering how Aziraphale could come to such a conclusion.
He stares at Aziraphale and realizes that maybe the angel expects a response, a reason, an explanation. But what is there to say that wouldn’t sound like an excuse now that Aziraphale’s made up his mind.
He wants to say that he's not, that he wouldn't, that it's not even in his job description... 'Aziraphale, don’t be silly I got sick same as anyone else in town’, but the words stick in his throat as he slowly comes to what seems like an obvious and undeniable conclusion. It’s always a demon’s fault. Practically what they were made for, wasn’t it. He’s not going to die, discorporate maybe, but he’ll always come back. Humans won’t.
"I’m dooming them," Crowley mumbles, vision greying out at the edges. He doesn’t see Aziraphale’s eyebrows raise, but he does see him make some sort of movement towards Crowley. So Crowley shrugs away, a jerky wrench of shoulders followed by a wet sniff, defenses coming firmly up. "Well… demon," he chokes out. It’s all he has.
And then Crowley flees. He stumbles away from Aziraphale with his miserable face and from the city with its fragile humans. He aims his feet down the damp and mudcaked path that heads away from the villa he had picked out, tripping and lurching about until he finds a dark hole deep in the woods where he can sniffle and wheeze and shake until he’s no longer a danger to anyone else.
He crawls out of it a week later, like emerging from a drunken stupor, and can barely remember why a dank cave seemed a more suitable place to convalesce than a fully unoccupied villa, other than that’s obviously where a plague rat would live.
Crowley goes back to hell, where Beelzebub reprimands him for being incommunicado. "Got a bit indisposed, I suppose. It happens," Crowley shrugs, and Beelzebub assigns him skulk work out in the boonies for the next decade.
Aziraphale says nothing to him about it the next time they meet. They simply slip back into old routines when he asks if Crowley had any interest in Mozart, and then he sighs and pouts about how opportunities to see a performance were so hard to come by.
Crowley himself very nearly forgets the whole thing; what’s a couple of rough weeks when you’ve been alive for a few rough millennia, but then he sneezes while dropping off a report in hell, and a few of the lesser demons around him scatter. They hiss and grimace with entirely unconcealed disgust, and Aziraphale’s face and voice and words come rushing to the front of Crowley’s mind. He locks himself in the broom closet they call his office under the guise of catching up on fifty years of paperwork. No one comes to check on him, not that he expects Hastur to bring him chicken soup or anything like that, but even a knock to ask if he’d discorporated would have been nice.
When he feels well enough a few days later, he slips out and finds that the entire hall leading to his office has been made off-limits. Dagon informs him, standing half a room away, that his office will be purged of his "human affliction" with hellfire, so if there was anything he needed, he should take it with him now.
Crowley decides then to apply for a more permanent residence on earth.
Crowley had missed many things during his post holy water request depression nap. He missed the city. He, vaguely, missed the people. He, well, didn’t exactly miss as much as ignore completely and then burn as soon as he woke up, Hell’s paperwork.
One thing he definitely had not missed, he decides one crisp autumn afternoon when his head feels stuffed so full of wet cotton batting that he can barely see straight, is the flu. It must be some kind of infernal punishment, Crowley thinks, to survive a second world war only to be discorporated by a fever and a stuffy nose.
Something he definitely missed, maybe more than anything else, even if he thought they were never going to "fraternize" again, is currently standing across the street and giving him a disappointed look.
It’s not entirely out of place. Aziraphale’s been running hot and cold with him ever since the whole nazi-bomb-church ordeal, oscillating wildly between overly friendly and suspiciously untrusting. It’s just Crowley’s demonically good luck that he’s landed on suspiciously untrusting today.
He wonders if maybe he can nip in and out of the chemists for something that might ease the aching chill that’s wrapped around him before Aziraphale decides to make something out of it, but he doesn’t get within ten feet of the door before the angel is in front of him.
"What are you up to, Crowley?" he asks, giving the demon a good once over.
For a desperate moment, Crowley thinks about telling him, begging him to understand that he wouldn’t have gone out except for how unwell he felt, but the cool suspicion in Aziraphale’s eyes stops him. It reminds him that even a carefully planned outing was wrong. No one in the shop deserves to catch what he has.
"Got me, huh. Saw a wile and you thwarted it. Well done, you." Crowley slouches against the wall, the energy he’d stored up for this little excursion rapidly leaving him. "Let's leave it at that, hm?"
"Whatever you’re doing," Aziraphale sighs, scrutinizing him again. "I do wish you’d explain..."
Crowley slides away from the wall, slithery like the damned thing he is, and skirts past Aziraphale, being careful not to touch him. "Demon," he says, because what other possible explanation is there.
Things get better after the 60s. They have their rendezvous to compare notes and occasionally if they’re having a really good note comparing time Aziraphale suggests Crowley come over for more note comparing.
It’s a very professional kind of camaraderie. One that more often than not involves multiple bottles of alcohol.
"So I said," says Crowley, head tipped back against the arm of the couch, "I said, ‘get on with it then’ and... they did!" He lolls his head to the side to hit Aziraphale with a toothy grin. "The whole lot of them, right in the middle of the bar, going at it like rabbits. Filled my entire lust quotient up in one night."
"Oh, you’re awful," admonishes Aziraphale, his cheeks flushed pink with either wine or angelic embarrassment at the raunchier aspects of the free love movement.
"Ehh, ‘m not really doing anything," Crowley hems, finishing the last mouthful of wine in his glass. "They would have been doing it anyway. I’m just there, sitting at the bar, making suggestions, ordering pretentious conceptual cocktails that have no edible ingredients. Tick off a lot of wrath requirements with that." He snickers and reaches for the closest bottle of wine, frowning when he finds it empty.
Aziraphale suddenly pats Crowley’s knee. "I have a lovely bottle of 1873 Chateau d'Yquem. It’s… lush. It will pair perfectly with the strawberry tart I got from the patisserie earlier." Aziraphale slurs his words only slightly before he stands and toddles out the door.
Crowley watches him go, a soft smile playing across his lips as he stretches out on the couch. It’s late enough that he might risk asking Aziraphale if he could stay over. That wouldn’t be going too fast; that’d be practical.
And then he sneezes.
Crowley scrubs his finger under his nose. "Just a wine sneeze," he mumbles before sniffling experimentally. His nose twitches and he sneezes again.
Crowley groans. He feels fine. He’s also drunk. And he can hear Aziraphale banging about in the kitchen. So he sobers up to do a quick check.
Head? Aching. Throat? Tender. Sinuses? Clogged in a drippy sort of way. He’s so far from fine that he’s amazed he didn’t realize it before. But now he can’t unrealize it, and he can’t stay here, and if Aziraphale catches him…
Crowley’s out the door and down the block, thanking whoever that it’s too late and too cold for him to run into any humans, before Aziraphale makes it out of the kitchen.
When they meet again a week and a half later, when Crowley’s throat doesn’t feel like he swallowed glass, Aziraphale is more efficient than usual.
Crowley drapes himself over the back of the cafe chair. "So, back to your place, angel?"
Aziraphale cripsly folds the newspaper he was pretending to read so it didn’t look like they were together. "Oh, I’m sure you have somewhere better to be. I'd hardly want to bore you or keep you from what I can only assume are more pressing matters."
It’s months before Aziraphale invites him over again.
Crowley is ill exactly once while playing nanny to Warlock Dowling. He really thought it would have been more than that, what with children being the sticky little germ magnets they are, but Crowley’s eternally grateful that it’s just the one time. The absolute terror he feels at the first sneeze has him all but teleporting himself out of the house, away from the antichrist and all the human occupants. Instead, he calmly informs Mrs. Dowling, while standing a whole room away from her, that he’ll be using some of his time off, and then he barricades himself in his flat.
Aziraphale shows up at the end of the second day, demanding answers through the locked and warded front door that Crowley is definitely not opening.
"I don’t know what kind of scheme you’re pulling, Crowley." Aziraphale almost sounds sad about it. "We’re so close... What could possibly be so important that you needed to use your sick leave for?"
Crowley very nearly calls out to explain that it’s because he’s ill, that he’s doing the right thing, and that Aziraphale should be pleased with how not diablical he’s being, but he can’t do it. Literally, physically, can’t do it. The heavy cough that’s settled into his chest has already torn up his throat and stolen his voice. He buries his face into his pillows as the barking cough wrenches out of him, hoping that Aziraphale doesn’t hear.
The angel knocks and calls out a few more times before his footsteps fade away down the hall. He doesn’t come around again.
It’s over a week before Crowley makes it back to work. He’s made sure that his fever is gone for at least two days before he even thinks about returning, even though his voice is still tender. Warlock hangs about him, going on about how much he’s missed her, and Crowley assures him, in more of a whisper than usual, that Nanny missed him very much as well. Aziraphale keeps a close, suspicious eye on him for days.
They had a lovely evening out. Crowley’s propped against the shop window watching Aziraphale unlock the door when he feels a slight tightness in the back of his throat and nearly trips over his own feet trying to vault himself an untransmittable distance away from Aziraphale.
Aziraphale swings the door open and turns back to give him a look. "Coming?"
They’ve only just averted the end of the world and stopped mankind from being destroyed. He can’t begin their new life by spreading some terrible plague around, so Crowley shakes his head. "I, uh, just remembered. I’ve got demon business."
"You don’t work for hell anymore, Crowley," Aziraphale says, brows knitted together in confusion. "What possible demon business could you have?"
Crowley takes another step away from him. "Oh, you know... stuff, things. See ya around, yeah?" He turns so that he can’t see the devastation on Aziraphale’s face.
"When?" Aziraphale asks, his concern over this sudden turn evident in his voice.
He’s already walking away, but he calls over his shoulder. "Dunno… couple weeks maybe?"
The angel is left standing in his doorway, the word ‘weeks’ repeating sadly on his lips.
He doesn’t hear Aziraphale break into his flat a few days later, but he does hear him call out, asking where he is and what he’s up to, and Crowley miracles his bedroom door closed and locked so fast that the walls shake with the force.
Aziraphale tries the doorknob. "This certainly doesn’t make me less suspicious, Crowley." He waits a moment, and when he gets no answer, he continues. "I need to know that you’re all right."
Crowley is far from all right. He aches everywhere, and freezing chills have been shaking him so hard he’s worried he might crack a bone. He’s exhausted but can’t sleep because his nose is clogged, and when he breathes through his mouth, it sets off a fit of painful coughing. His sneezes are wet and messy and he’s almost out of tissues. And the worst is that he can’t bring himself to say any of that to Aziraphale. His angel. The one being in possibly all of creation who should understand.
"I need to know..." Aziraphale pauses because he doesn’t want to think badly of Crowley, especially not after what they’ve been through, but a demon is a demon and angels are meant to think badly of demons. "I need to know you’re not doing anything… demonic."
Crowley nearly sobs. He’s trying his best to not do anything demonic, but it’s a little hard when one is, in every way, a demon.
"I’m not," he manages to call out, his voice rough and unforgiving, and he coughs to clear it. "Angel, I swear." He presses his face into a handful of tissues to muffle a sneeze. "Please, please just leave. It’ll all be fine in a week, I promise."
"Crowley? Just tell me."
Aziraphale sounds so terribly, honestly worried that most of Crowley’s apprehensions dissolve. "I’m..." he starts. Now, after everything, surely it will be okay. "I… I’ve…" He steadies himself and confesses his sins. "I’ve got the flu."
There’s a quiet moment before Crowley hears Azirapahle huff in irritation, can practically hear him rolling his eyes through the door.
"Oh, would you stop it? I know you’re faking, Crowley," he says with an air of authority that slices through Crowley’s fever-fogged brain. "I know demons don’t get ill."
Crowley manages to sit up in confusion. Whatever worries he thought to have did not include this. "Where," he asks, "did you get the idea that demons can’t get ill? You’ve seen me ill, Aziraphale."
"I have never," Aziraphale says. And then, a moment later, "It’s just common knowledge, Crowley. Everyone knows-"
Crowley’s shaking from more than just the fever now. "Late 1700s, Aziraphale," he interrupts, the words rushing out. "Little town outside Norwich. Everyone was ill. I was.. You said I was a… a..." He can’t get those words out though, they stick in his throat and choke him. It’s the truth and he still can’t say it.
There’s silence on the other side of the door.
Crowley waits.
Waits.
Waits.
"Oh dear lord, I called you a plague rat."
The door to the bedroom clicks open. Crowley’s not sure if he did it or if Aziraphale has worked through the lock, but when the door swings open they’re both frozen, staring at each other and not sure who should make the first move.
Aziraphale takes a step towards Crowley and Crowley launches himself so far back that he comes close to toppling over the other side of his bed. "Stay away. I don’t want you to catch this, angel."
Aziraphale takes a deep breath, absorbing the disaster in front of him. "You were ill and I called you a plague rat. Crowley… I’m… it’s inexcusable."
Crowley shakes his head and then ducks into his elbow to cough. "You’er right tho."
"No," Aziraphale breathes, carefully moving towards the bed. "No. You weren’t… you didn’t mean...?" He trails off in a question because as much as he thinks that, no, of course, Crowley would never, he needs to be sure.
Crowley shakes his head again, quick jerky movements this time, like he’s going to shake apart at any moment. "Didn’ mean to, but I..." he trails off into a sniff before scrambling to cover his nose and mouth before a guttural sneeze scrapes through him. He groans, forgetting himself before looking up, eyes wide and horrified. "Please, leave." He’s never used the ‘p’ word so much in his entire existence.
"Absolutely not." Aziraphale looks equally horrified, but for entirely different reasons. He brushes a few used tissues aside on the bed before he sits, hand slowly reaching out to Crowley.
"I should have taken care of you. Back then." Aziraphale keeps going even though Crowley’s shaking his head again. When he finally makes contact with Crowley’s arm, he forces himself not to pull away from the heat he feels. "There were other times too, when I didn’t see, when I made you feel..."
"We’re hereditary enemies," Crowley wheezes weakly, cutting Aziraphale off. He holds himself very still as Aziraphale slides closer, scarcely believing that it’s happening like this after all these years.
"That’s hardly an excuse for my behavior," Azriaphale says, sliding a cool hand across Crowley’s forehead and brushing back a few sweat soaked strands of hair.
"You don’t have to do this," Crowley says, small and quiet and with no conviction. "You can leave."
"No, my dear," Aziraphale replies. "Not this time."
When Crowley next wakes, it’s to a pounding head and a throat that feels like he’s swallowed lava. It’s not the worst he’s ever felt, but it ranks fairly high, sitting somewhere shy of being literally dipped in boiling sulfur. He’s not sure anything is going to top that. But that was centuries ago and this is now. And now he’s hot and achy and thirsty.
It doesn’t matter though. Because now he has Aziraphale.
Sweet, tender Azirapahle who, hours earlier, had guided Crowley to rest his head on his lap and smoothed his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Attentive, caring Aziraphale who had miracled honey and lemon tea for Crowley to drink and pressed an ever-cool flannel to his forehead. Soft, gentle Aziraphale who had whispered apologies and promises to stay for as long as Crowley needed.
Crowley had held tight to those tender words and loving gestures. He wrapped them around himself like the comforter Aziraphale had tucked around his shoulders. It was better than all the little secret wishes and dreams he had during the worst times before. The ones that made him ashamed as soon as he felt better, like he was somehow stealing something he’d never be freely given.
But Aziraphale was here now, warm and solid and real.
Crowley groans, realizing that the only thing under his head is a warm, damp pillow. Must have rolled off of Aziraphale while he was asleep, he reasons, as he reaches out to where the angel had last been.
His hand hits nothing but a cool patch of blankets.
Opening eyes is such a monumental task, but Crowley powers through the lead-like heaviness of his eyelids to crack them a sliver. His hand was right. Aziraphale isn’t there. He looks around his room, blearily wondering if Aziraphale had perhaps moved a chair in so that he could sit and read by Crowley’s bedside while the demon, no doubt, tossed and turned restlessly.
But there’s nothing.
There’s also nothing on his nightstand. There was no cup of tea or glass of water—nothing to indicate that the angel had ever even been there.
"‘Zi’aph’le," he calls out, voice cracking and tongue lying uncooperatively heavy in his mouth.
He’s probably in the kitchen. Or maybe he went to speak to the plants. The thought settles comfortingly around him. It would make sense. Whenever Aziraphale had been over since the apocalypse failed to happen, he’d taken to talking sweetly to Crowley’s room of greens, whispering nonsense about what Crowley was really like. It set them all back terribly and undid his hard work, and Crowley had huffed at him about it.
There’s nothing but silence through the flat.
Aziraphale just didn’t hear, Crowley’s sure of it. He tries calling out again, but the sound catches in his throat and leaves him coughing. It burns through his chest, raking hooks that shred his lungs and leave him wheezing and trembling.
He claws his way to the edge of his bed, eyes squeezed shut against the sickening spin of the room. He just needs to get to Aziraphale. Find him wherever he is in the flat. The angel never would have left if he knew how much Crowley needed him. He promised.
Crowley stumbles towards the hallway, narrowly escaping the tangle of sheets around his legs. He takes his time, sliding along the walls until he makes it to his plants. They shake with what Crowley assumes is misplaced sympathy when he pauses among them to work through a ragged bout of coughing.
Something unpleasant curls around inside his chest as he notices dry dirt and wilted leaves. Aziraphale hasn’t stopped to coo over the lush greenery. But Crowley can't expect the angel to think about watering if he’s spending his time looking after him. It means nothing, so he soldiers on.
The flat is eerily quiet. Crowley had expected, had known, that once he got closer to the kitchen he’d hear Aziraphale shuffling about, bustling around in his cabinets, maybe even making himself at home with the use of his stereo equipment to play some soft classical.
But there’s nothing. His flat is silent and still and, Crowley realizes belatedly, bare feet sliding along a floor that feels like ice, cold.
"Angel?" he tries, his voice wavering as the unpleasant feeling roots firmly in him and begins to bloom. "Aziraphale…" It spills out of him more sob than name as he enters the kitchen and finds it empty.
He couldn’t have been so wrong. Crowley grasps the countertop, chest heaving uncomfortably. He couldn’t have.
Looking around, Crowley desperately hopes to find some indication that Aziraphale had been there. Something out of place, something new. Anything that could tell him that it wasn’t just a dream.
Crowley shuts his eyes and swallows. He can still feel Aziraphale’s fingers through his hair, how cool the angel’s fingertips were, how soft his thighs were, how gentle his voice was.
Imagination is a powerful thing. Crowley knows that, has built so much of his existence on that. But some things, no matter how entirely they’re imagined, how wanted, how needed, will never be.
His vision blurs and the hot wetness of tears rolls down his cheeks. Crowley sniffs and digs around in the pocket of his pajama pants to find a scrap of tissue to scrub his runny nose with. He needs to go back to bed. The idea of sleeping again both terrifies and buoys him. He doesn’t want to be so weak, so nakedly and brazenly needy, but the hope of fictional comfort, precisely tailored by his own imagination, is a siren call that Crowley is far too exhausted to resist. If it’s all he can have, he’s going to let himself have it.
Crowley grabs a glass out of a cupboard and flicks on the faucet, letting the water run until it’s nice and cold. There's no reason to return empty-handed. He sniffs again, hand scrubbing at his sore eyes. His legs shake as he sags against the counter while the glass fills.
His whole body has been pushed past its fever weakened limits, and Crowley has a moment of crystal clarity when he steps away from the sink, where he knows that he won’t make it back to his bedroom. All of existence swings alarmingly, pulling him in three directions at once.
The glass slips from his fingers, clattering against the counter as Crowley slides bonelessly down. He has a rude thought about Isaac Newton and his impractical gravity as he watches, with his last few seconds of consciousness, the spilled water drip off the counter and onto a growing puddle on the floor.
There’s a special kind of panic that sets in when one is forced to make a decision when one has only put oneself in the decision making position in a poorly thought-out bid to avoid another situation.
Aziraphale, struck with the ever mounting pressure of closing time at the chemist's two blocks from Crowley’s flat, stares into the abyss of a multiple choice test involving boxes of tissues.
Crowley must prefer some type of these, given that that’s all he could find in the demon’s flat, although it was mostly scattered used tissues, which were less than helpful. Aziraphale himself had always gone with handkerchiefs, relishing the imagined polite simplicity of folding up your troubles and tucking them away to deal with in private later. The simple cloth had never steered him wrong, so he never had any reason to try anything else.
But he should know what Crowley would like, shouldn’t he. Or, at least, should be able to make a decision about what would make him feel best. He puts one box back and picks another one to compare. Crowley would feel best if Aziraphale hadn’t swallowed every one of Heaven’s lines about demons. He turns the box around, sets it back, and picks another. Crowley wouldn’t lock himself away if Aziraphale had only listened. He picks up a colorful multi-pack. Wouldn’t suffer alone. He places the multi-pack on the shelf and reaches for a box marked extra soft. Wouldn’t look at Aziraphale, eyes glazed and fully yellow, with such pathetic gratitude at the smallest amount of kindness. Aziraphale’s grip on the box tightens. Crowley would feel best if Aziraphale hadn’t bolted after promising he’d stay, if, after hours of sitting with Crowley and watching him cough and wheeze and burn, he hadn’t all but run from Crowley’s flat with whatever excuse he could grab, if he hadn’t stalled at a shop dithering over boxes of tissues that he could have just miracled up himself.
Aziraphale blinks at the crushed box in his hands and glances around to see if anyone saw his brief loss of control.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath and buys two more boxes to make up for crushing the one.
Aziraphale doesn’t know what he expected when he came back, but none of it was even in the realm of tripping over Crowley’s unconscious body. He sinks down, frantically terrified as he reaches out, so very sure that Crowley’s discorporated, alone and abandoned while he had a nice and neat little freakout. But the blind, unworldly panic fades when he places a hand on Cowley’s cheek.
The demon is, nearly quite literally, burning; the skin under his fingers unbearably hot and dry. Aziraphale shuts his eyes and takes a steadying breath. Alive. Crowley’s alive.
He strokes down to his shoulder. "Crowley? I need you to wake up." There’s no response, save for a slight twitching tremble that rolls over the demon’s body.
He tries again, calling softly and encouragingly, and gives his shoulder a squeeze. He leverages Crowley up into a sitting position, propping him against the cabinet.
Crowley groans, head rolling towards Aziraphale’s voice. His eyes slit open, pinning Aziraphale with relief so palpable that Aziraphale makes a soft surprised noise. And then that look is gone, violently shuttered with a harsh scraping cough as Crowley bangs his head back against the cupboards.
A thin, reedy, groaning noise wheezes out of him, and he wrenches himself away from Aziraphale, dragging himself away from the angel’s touch, folding his legs up to his chest. Aziraphale can faintly hear Crowley mumbling under his breath, a string of words repeating and tumbling from his cracked lips, and it takes him a moment to understand.
"It’s not real."
"He’s not here."
"You’re dreaming.”
"Wake up."
Crowley punctuates the last one with another head clunk against the cabinets. "Please, please, please wake up." He presses his hands into his eyes, fisting his hair as more whimpered begging flows out of him.
"Stop, stop. Crowley," Aziraphale pulls his hands away, gently freeing his fingers from their tangle in the demon’s hair and lowering them to his knees instead. "Crowley, you’re awake. You’re awake."
His eyes stay screwed shut and he twists away from Aziraphale, refusing to look at him, head shaking back and forth. He’s still muttering under his breath, words interspersed with choked off, broken sobs.
Aziraphale brushes over Crowley’s forehead, fingers carding through his sweat sticky hair. "You’ve got a fever," he says, like patiently explaining will get past the fire in Crowley’s brain. He brackets his hands around the demon’s head, thumbs stroking against his temples. When he gets no response, he sighs and presses his own forehead against Crowley’s. "What on earth were you even doing up?" he murmurs.
"Thirsty," Crowley mumbles and it turns into a cough.
Aziraphale pulls back. "You were..." he begins before he remembers that he hadn’t left Crowley anything to drink. "Oh." He looks away, and the overturned glass on the counter catches his eye. "Oh, I’m sorry, Crowley."
He’s already up and filling the water glass when he hears Crowley mumble again.
"‘S not your fault, angel." Crowley’s gazing at him, swaying even though he’s seated on the floor. "You weren’t here."
"I should have been," Aziraphale says as he turns off the tap.
Crowley shakes his head, eyes closing when Aziraphale kneels next to him. "You’re never here." It’s not an accusation, not viciously spit into his face, only a simple statement of fact. It cuts into Aziraphale all the same.
He raises the glass to Crowley’s lips, but the demon won’t drink. "Crowley, please." Aziraphale tilts the glass and a bit of water dribbles down his chin. "I've got you water."
"You’re not real," Crowley sniffs. His nose is running and Aziraphale sets the glass aside to fish a handkerchief out of his pocket.
"I most assuredly am real," he states, swiping the cloth over Crowley’s upper lip. Aziraphale folds the handkerchief over and then cups it around the chapped, reddened nose. "Blow." When Crowley doesn’t move, Aziraphale gives his fingers a small wiggle.
Crowley’s eyes stutter open. He looks frightfully unsure, but after another small wiggle from Aziraphale’s hand, he hesitantly blows and then allows Aziraphale to clean him up.
"Are you with me now?" Aziraphale asks as he dabs at the last bit of moisture.
There’s nothing for a long time, save for Crowley's wheezing breaths and blank stare, and then he seems to make his way out of the fog.
"Aziraphale?" Crowley blinks, heavy and dazed. He brushes clumsy fingers against Aziraphale’s chest, face crumbling. "You really here, then?" His voice cracks and stutters and he swallows painfully.
Aziraphale wraps his hand around the back of Crowley’s neck, brushing against the hair at his nape. "Yes, I’m here. I swear it." He sighs and presses the glass of water to Crowley’s lips again.
This time, the demon drinks. Slowly at first, but then he’s gulping at the water so hungrily that Aziraphale fears he’s going to choke on it and pulls it away from him.
Crowley whines, a wrecked keen that’s like a knife through Aziraphale’s very essence, head trying to follow the glass but ultimately too weak to do so.
Aziraphale shushes him and runs his fingers through his hair, petting him as he explains. "You can have as much as you’d like, Crowley." Aziraphale picks the glass up again and raises it to Crowley’s lips, letting him drink a bit more. "But slowly."
Crowley sips this time, eyes on Aziraphale like he’s not sure the angel won’t pull away again.
"There you go," Aziraphale murmurs, encouragingly.
"Angel, can I tell you something?" Crowley sighs when he pulls away for a breath, head lolling against the cabinet. "‘M not feelin’ so hot." He means it as a joke, but it’s weak and frail and Crowley’s too exhausted to wonder if he should have said it at all. All he knows is that he doesn’t feel well and that Aziraphale came back.
Aziraphale sets the glass aside. "I know," he agrees while sliding one arm behind Crowley’s shoulders and the other under his knees. He lifts the demon up and adjusts him so that Crowley can tuck his face into the crook of his neck. He sighs into the hold, letting his arms drape over Aziraphale’s shoulders.
By the time they get to the bedroom, Crowley is in a new set of pajamas, and there are fresh sheets on the bed, cool and turned down and waiting. Aziraphale eases him down, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck to guide his head safely to the pillows. As he pulls the blankets up, Crowley curls sharply, hacking wet and hard against the mattress, and Aziraphale rests a hand against his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades.
Crowley twitches at the contact and peers up, a little furrow between his eyes, unfocused and glassy. Aziraphale pulls back, bracing himself for another round of convincing Crowley he’s not dreaming, but instead, Crowley stretches a hand out, ghosting it over Aziraphale’s forearm.
"Are you…" He licks his lips, breath rasping, and his hand sinks down firmer and with a small squeeze. "You’ll stay?"
Aziraphale folds himself onto the edge of the bed, placing a hand over Crowley’s and giving it a squeeze back. He nods.
"Don’t have to," Crowley mumbles, eyes slipping shut before he forces them open again, desperate to be sure Aziraphale hasn’t disappeared again. "‘M really fine on my own."
"I’m sure you’re perfectly capable. But you don’t have to be." Aziraphale twines their fingers together. "You can sleep," he whispers, watching the demon fight to stay awake. "I’ll be here when you wake up."
Crowley opens his eyes and for the first time in days doesn’t immediately regret it. The image of a dishtowel, rung out and left lying in a listless heap, crosses his mind as he stretches, taking a slow inventory of his jumble of limbs and still aching muscles. He rolls himself slowly upright, testing the amount of sway the room holds for him, and decides that the jelly in his arms has more to do with days of wretched infirmity than anything resembling a lingering fever.
He feels miles better than he has, but Crowley still takes a moment, and a few steadying breaths, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. And then he takes another moment before even thinking about standing. He almost calls out for Aziraphale, but the angel’s been doing so much for him over the past few days that Crowley fights the urge. He’ll find Aziraphale in the plant room, or maybe the kitchen, and let him fuss somewhere other than the bedroom for a bit.
His legs and back complain and waver over holding him up, but Crowley soldiers through and makes it to his bedroom door without incident.
Crowley makes it past the plant room and into the living room before he catches sight of Aziraphale. The angel is cleaning up in front of the couch. He’s rarely this tidy at the bookshop and Crowley feels a warm glow of softness about seeing it here. He’s just about to comment when Aziraphale pauses and then practically doubles over with a harsh sneeze.
Crowley's not even aware he's moving until his back hits the wall and his legs go out from under him. He’s certainly not aware that a string of "no"s are falling from his lips until Aziraphale is kneeling in front of him.
He deserves whatever Aziraphale is going to do to him, but when the angel's fingers brush his cheek he still flinches.
"I didn't mean to; please, angel, I didn’t..." The plea wrenches out of him, strangled and desperate, even as familiar thoughts creep into his mind. It doesn't matter that you didn't mean it, Crowley, they whisper; it's what you are. An ungrateful, greedy demon.
He's shaking, forcing himself to stay where he is and face whatever's coming. Aziraphale tried to help him, took care of him, and this is how he repays that kindness? It chokes him, leaving him gasping.
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says, drawing him closer and wrapping him in his arms.
"I did this." Crowley trembles in Aziraphale's arms.
"No," Aziraphale says softly.
He pulls back, unwilling to accept the small amount of comfort. Crowley can see the damage he’s caused up close now… the tired, red rimmed eyes, his already pinkened, chapped nose, a flush of fever high on his cheeks. He reaches out, wanting to soothe the pain lines around Aziraphale's eyes, but he stops. He shouldn't.
"You tried to help me. You don't deserve…" Crowley looks away, eyes going dark. "I'm a demon—"
"You didn't do this, Crowley," Aziraphale says, more firmly. Then he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "This isn't… you don't have any control over this, Crowley." He reaches out again, laying a warm hand on Crowley's arm.
Crowley's already shaking his head, but Aziraphale stops him with a squeeze. "Even if I did catch this from you," he says, stopping to make sure Crowley's paying attention to this part. "Even if, it's still not something you did. Not on purpose." He twines his fingers with Crowley's, rubbing his thumb over Crowley's encouragingly. "You didn't mean—"
Crowley twitches. "No, no, angel, I would never, I don't..." He fumbles over the words, trying to assure Aziraphale. "I’m not…" He reaches with his free hand, hesitant to touch until Aziraphale doesn’t pull away. His fingers tremble against the angel’s skin, brushing over the light flush in his cheeks, the deepening pink around his nose, the darkening, tired smudges under his eyes. "Aziraphale," he sighs, a plaintive apology.
"Crowley, it’ll be all..." He trails off with a heavy sniff, turning his face away. "All ri-- i’uhetcheshh! Oh dear," he groans, sniffling again, breath coming in heavy pants.
Crowley pulls a handkerchief from the air and cups it gently and hesitantly around Aziraphale’s streaming nose.
"Oh. Oh, thank you," Aziraphale sags, letting Crowley take some of the weight of his head as he blows. He glances softly at Crowley over the edge of the handkerchief. "I think we both could use some tea."
Crowley follows him to the kitchen and lets himself be guided to sink into one of the chairs around the island. It’s a chair he never owned before, one that's comfortable but doesn't fit his flat's aesthetic. He sits there and watches Aziraphale pull a kettle that isn't his out of a cupboard that's filled with tins of tea and cocoa that aren't what he normally drinks and lay out mugs that would be at home in a warm and cozy bookshop. He watches Aziraphale putter around, sniffly and congested, like he belongs in Crowley's kitchen.
He reaches across the island. "Aziraphale." His voice breaks, and Aziraphale comes to sit across from him, folding his hand into Crowley's. "I should be making you tea."
"I'm perfectly capable, Crowley." He sniffs and pulls out a handkerchief to lightly blow his nose and then regards Crowley with a dry smile. "I've managed before just fine."
"You've never been unwell before, Aziraphale... makes a difference."
There's a subtle shift in the way Aziraphale holds himself, a nervous flickering away of his gaze, and something stalls in Crowley. Unlike Aziraphale, he had no hell-based conceptions about angels; he didn't think that angels couldn't just because this one hadn't. "When were you..." He rubs his forehead. "You've never been," he tries again, because he would have known. Aziraphale would have told him. Aziraphale would have come to him. Aziraphale would have looked at him and wondered if, perhaps, couldn’t he make this better. His gaze drifts down to their hands lying together on the countertop.
But it sounds wrong and when Crowley looks up at him Aziraphale avoids his eyes. The angel pulls his hand back to knit them in front of himself.
Crowley shakes his head. "You would have said something."
"You're a demon," Aziraphale says, not unkindly but still with the silted roteness that Crowley’s known for centuries. That hardly makes it sting any less. "Demons don't…" Aziraphale begins and then tries again. "I know you're..." He reaches for Crowley's hand, but Crowley pulls back with just a twitch of movement, and Aziraphale's hand stalls. "Demons aren't really known to be caring, now are they," he decides on and turns to take the kettle from the stove.
"‘Spose not," says Crowley because he can't think of anything else to say.
Aziraphale keeps his back turned as he pours water into the cups, steam curling around him. "Surely you can see how-"
Crowley sneezes and Aziraphale turns to give him a look that’s bordering too close to the edge of sympathy for Crowley’s taste at the moment. The demon waves him off as he pats around his pyjamas for a wad of usable tissues. "Yeah, I see, angel." He hisses on the ‘s’ and hates himself for it.
Crowley's curled in a small miserable ball along the edge of his bed, doing his best not to make any sound that might cause Aziraphale to check on him, guilt and shame and a faint feeling of losing something he never really had sitting heavy in his belly.
There's a sort of shuffling noise and then a far too rough throat clearing and Crowley braces himself.
"I was wondering," Aziraphale begins softly, voice scratchy and catching, "if I could lie down for a bit…"
There's a sharp ache in Crowley's chest. He rolls, turning to face his angel. Aziraphale is in the doorway, flushed and unsteady and almost sagging against the frame. He also looks resolved, like he's steeled himself for any outcome.
The whole situation is such a perversion of Crowley's dreams and ambitions that he can hardly sit up. "You could go home," he says, gently and honestly and without any accusation, as he fists the sheet wrapped around him, planning on taking it with him to lie on the couch while Aziraphale takes the bed.
Aziraphale's face fixes itself into the soft, pleading look that Crowley is helpless to ignore, pasted on with a deliberate firmness that the demon reads warily. "I was rather thinking that, perhaps, I could lie here... with you." It's like it's being squeezed from him, pulled from the bottom of his toes and extruded in the form of their carefully choreographed arrangement, a planned and practiced olive branch that Crowley honestly doesn't know what to do with.
The toll it's taken on Aziraphale is plainly etched across his face as the moment drags between them.
And then Aziraphale sneezes, harshly wrenching him to the side, and Crowley's brain drops any thought about how this experience hasn't been ideal and focuses instead on how this experience is. That it’s real and happening and messy.
"Angel," Crowley says, in the softly considerate and caring way he always thought he might if he had the chance. This is the chance. As is the next moment and the one after that. A million moments stretching before them, shaped not by the shadow of the past but by the possibilities of a future.
Crowley reaches his hand out across a turned down corner of the comforter. "Come here, angel."
Aziraphale comes, sniffling over a handkerchief, and perches on the edge of the bed, his exhausted body slowly sinking down. When Crowley touches him with a light stroke down his arm, barely guiding him, he startles momentarily and then forces himself to relax.
"‘s just me, Aziraphale, yeah? It's just me," Crowley says, until Aziraphale looks at him, sees him, and nods.
"Crowley," Aziraphale says, voice breaking halfway through, but Crowley shakes his head and shushes him.
"Lie down, angel," Crowley encourages, tugging on his arm. And Aziraphale does.
Crowley comes back to the bedroom carrying a tray with tea and biscuits on it. "Extra honey in yours; practically half a jar in there," he says as he sets the tray on the nightstand and slips into bed behind Aziraphale.
"You spoil me." Aziraphale smiles softly and leans back against Crowley’s chest, wriggling a little as the demon adjusts the blankets higher again. "We should have done this earlier," he sighs.
"The hacking cough?" Crowley picks up the mug of tea from the nightstand and encourages Aziraphale to fold his hands around it. "Won’t begrudge you your dreams, angel, but that's not really my idea of a good time." He wraps his own hand over Aziraphale’s, ready to help him lift it when he wants a sip.
"No." Aziraphale shakes his head, blonde curls rustling against Crowley’s cheek.
He doesn’t say anything else for a while and Crowley knows better. He waits, watching the steam as it rises from the mug.
When Aziraphale speaks again, his creaky voice is tinged with regret. "We should have been taking care of each other." He takes a breath, one that pulls him up a bit, and Crowley bites his tongue. "I should have..." He presses his face against Crowley’s neck, hot against the thin skin there. "And I should have told you. So you could have."
Crowley thinks about the ache he’s felt for centuries, the odd strangling pain that comes from not being cared for, and with a deep breath, he lets it go. He presses a kiss down onto Aziraphale’s head. "We’ve got now, Aziraphale. We’ve got forever."
Back on my Go/od Om/ens nonsense lol. I wrote the basics of this like two years ago and then couldn't make myself finish it, which was awful because when I actually did do it it only took a handful of hours *cries*.
Anyway, they're soft your honor.
Aziraphale takes up knitting. General vague soft sickfic-ness, no real snz to speak of, rip lol. Roughly 2500 words.
Aziraphale developed not exactly a passion but more of a desire to calm nervous energy for knitting sometime in the mid 1500s while posted in a rather remote and pastural monastery. His first few thousand or so attempts were nothing to write heaven about, nor were any of his subsequent attempts if he was being honest with himself. But it passed the time and kept his hands busy and could be done without light if he was really pressed, or if heaven was currently cross at him for wasting miracles on nightlights to read manuscripts by.
He never kept anything he made, never wore any of it himself. A good amount of time he would simply unwind the yarn and start again, especially when yarn was a premium item. As yarn became more commonplace he’d leave items around or hand them out to the less fortunate. All part of angelic duty.
The first thing he made, on purpose, for a purpose, was a scarf for Crowley. It was in the early 1800s not long after he had opened his book shop and took up a more permanent residence in London. The demon had come to one of their meetings with a rather raging headcold. Crowley apologized as he sneezed into a expensive looking monogrammed handkerchief and Aziraphale felt something inside himself begin to ache.
That night he picked up the softest and thickest skien he had and began to knit. It wasn’t until he was half way through and the sun was beginning to crest over the city that he actually thought about giving the scarf to Crowley. About an angel giving a gift to a demon.
His hands stilled and his breath quickened. His side wouldn’t like that. Crowley might not even like that… it wasn’t exactly part of their routine. There was no pro quo to this quid.
But that ache, the one still sitting in his chest when he thought about how wretched Crowley looked and sounded and no doubtedly felt, that ache urged him to continue. So he did. Aziraphale poured all of his worry and hope and well wishes into each loop. He imagined wrapping it around Crowley’s neck and tucking the ends beneath the breast of his jacket. Pictured how warm and protected Crowley would be. How the simple scarf would will away another bout of illness.
And when he was done Aziraphale neatly folded the scarf, placed it into a box, and tucked it away on a high shelf in a seldom used closet at the back of the shop.
The next was a blanket.
It was after their fight. Crowley kept not showing up to meetings, both previously planned and the ones that Aziraphale had posted him about. He never popped by the shop unannounced or just happened to be anywhere Aziraphale was.
And every time Aziraphale didn’t see Crowley, when he had been expecting to see Crowley, or expected to not expect to see Crowley, he added a few rows to the blanket.
He had started it during one particularly rain drenched week where he got to wondering whether Crowley's absence was less of a desire to fraternize elsewhere and more of an inability to leave his flat. Of course Aziraphale couldn’t go to Crowley’s flat, to call on him, to check in- that would hardly be the actions of an angel towards his mortal enemy -but he could imagine what Crowley could be up to. And what he imagined was Crowley stuck in bed, possibly wracked with chills caused by the abnormal damp.
And a blanket could fix that.
It was lopsided and there was a rather glaring hole about a third of the way in when Aziraphale had worked himself up imagining Crowley feverishly calling for him, reaching out, hoping for some angelic care… and, well, some stitches had been dropped and not picked up for nearly twenty years.
In the end, after Crowley appeared again seemingly fine and rather well rested, the blanket got folded up and set on the shelf in the closet next to the box with the scarf.
He tried socks, in 1942. They were chunky and not the same length and Aziraphale couldn’t realistically picture Crowley wearing them. But he liked the idea of Crowley wearing them. And being warm and cozy, perhaps in front of a fireplace. Sitting next to Aziraphale. Drinking tea. Sharing a tin of biscuits.
They get placed in the box next to the scarf.
It wasn’t until the late 70’s that he knitted a hat. It had a pom-pom at the top, which Aziraphale was sure was the popular style of the time. The winters were full of deep snow drifts and he very nearly gave Crowley the hat multiple times after watching him brush snow off his hair and then hiss as he massaged his red tipped ears. “‘S bit nippy out there, angel, best we stay inside today.”
But then Crowley became enamored with the discotheque scene and gifting him a pom-pom hat seemed even more unsuitable than usual, so Aziraphale put the hat away in the box with the socks and the scarf.
A year and a half into their time attempting to influence the antichrist Mrs. Dowling decided to take Warlock, alone, to vist her parents in America for the winter holidays. During their time off Crowley came down with a rather dramatic case of bronchitis and Aziraphale knitted him a jumper.
He never gave the jumper to Crowley, but he did think warm thoughts while he knitted and imagined Crowley’s chest congestion lessening and ran his hand in comforting circles over the front in a way that, perhaps, he secretly wanted to do with Crowley occupying the jumper but that he told himself was merely to check the feeling of the ribbing.
Crowley got better, even though she appeared wane for nearly the first two weeks back as Nanny, and Aziraphale folded the jumper up neatly and laid it on top of the blanket.
A few weeks before the world doesn’t end, but they’re almost sure it will, Aziraphale knitted a pair of truely horrendous mittens. They were made from approximately thirty scrap bits of yarn that he had accumulated over the years. He hadn’t had the heart to throw any of them away and he also didn’t have the heart to let them go unused. Even if it was for something that would never be worn or even seen by its intended recipient. They were really more of something to keep his hands occupied while he fretted about loosing everything forever.
And then the world didn’t end. And neither Aziraphale nor Crowley were destroyed. And they were suddenly, for the first time in their lives, entirely free.
Aziraphale didn’t think about the knitted items. He certainly didn’t think about giving Crowley all of them all at once, because that would look odd at the very least, but he did notice that they’re still there, on the shelf in the closet at the back of his shop, like nothing disastrous had ever happened.
The first time Crowley had a bit of a sniffle while lounging on Aziraphale’s couch, sipping a lemon honey tea and complaining that it would be better with alcohol, Aziraphale only briefly paused before striding to the back of the shop.
He returned with the blanket and a bottle of rum. He draped the blanket unceremoniously over Crowley and then topped Crowley’s tea off with the rum and miracled it to the perfect temperature.
Crowley, having aquirend more tact over the years than most other demons, didn’t say anything about the color scheme or the large hole or the way he had to angle it if he wanted to stretch his feet out while staying covered. He didn’t say anything at all about it. He simply ran his fingers over the fabric, gliding in and out of the patterned holes, and then smiled gently into his mug. “Oooh, that’s the stuff. Good choice, angel.”
It became easier, then, to give Crowley things. Just in general but also specifically the knitted items. The next was the hat, before Crowley had sneezed even once. Aziraphale just had a feeling that perhaps it was going to happen, because it was winter and there was a wicked bite to the air and Crowley had shivered exactly once when he came through the door that day.
He causally handed the knitted hat, complete with it’s lopsided little pom-pom at the top, to Crowley before he headed out. And he immediately felt silly as Crowley stood there fingering the uneven sitching. Aziraphale was a fool, this obviously wasn’t the right time or place or situation. Crowley’s immacuratly mussed hair would be ruined by his hat with the aesthetics of someone who presumably had 1970s fashion described to them via a thirteen person game of telephone.
But when he reached out to snatch it back, to apologize, to laugh about how ridiculous he was to give Crowley an obviously joke hat, the demon quickly pulled the hat over his hair, tugging it down to cover his ears completely.
“Thanks, angel,” Crowley said, giving Aziraphaple a lopsided grin. “Cozy as a bug, now."
The jumper got pulled from the closet after Crowley called to beg off their longstanding dinner plans.
“Not feeling quite up to snuff, sorry,” Crowley wheezed over the phone before breaking into harsh barking coughs. “Raincheck?”
“I think I can do better than a raincheck, my dear,” Aziraphale promised, a bit ominously to Crowley’s admittedly feverish ears, and then hung up, packed up hot water bottles, mustard plasters, various "medicinal" alcohols, vaporub, two containers of takeaway soup, and the jumper and then popped over to Crowley’s flat.
“Oh, no no no…” the demon groaned when Aziraphale bustled through the bedroom door, arms loaded. “Should have never given you a key.”
“I hardly need a key,” Aziraphale huffed. Then he fluffed Crowley’s pillows and shook open the jumper, holding it up against Crowley. “Oh, good, not too large.”
Crowley went a bit boneless as Aziraphale wrangled him into the jumper, allowing the angel to position him carefully back against the pillows and then tuck the blankets around him.
When Aziraphale went to bang about in his kitchen, complaining about his lack of everything, Crowley raised his hand and rubbed it over his chest. His eyes slipped closed as his fingers slid over the cabling.
Crowley didn’t complain about anything else Aziraphale did while he was unwell. Except for the muster plaster, which he insisted was both unnecessary and also possibly a torture method from hell.
The socks came out after Crowley stumbled into quite an extraordinary amount of puddles after a rainstorm and ended up soaked from foot to thigh. Aziraphale had tutted at him, claiming that it wouldn’t have happened if the demon would have watched where he was walking and then not flailed about so flamboyantly after the first puddle. And then he miracled Crowley dry without even having to be asked.
But Crowley stayed obviously chilled and kept rubbing at his feet, shrugging and demuring when Aziraphale asked after him.
"They're just cold, angel, 's fine,” he said, while pressing his toes between his hands. “Had worse.”
"Worse" reminded Aziraphale of a bomb and a church and how it was not really fine at all, not then and especially not now that they were on their own side. So he went and retrieved the socks and knelt in front of Crowley, the way he thought about doing so many years ago.
The demon opened his mouth, saw what Aziraphale was holding, and shut it with an audible snap. He gingerly offered his ice cold feet to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale tried not to linger as he slid the socks on, only pausing once done to study them. "Oh, they're a bit wonky..." he sighed, finger trailing around the not quite straight toe seam.
"Nonsense," sniffed Crowley. "They're prefect." Then he pulled his feet up under him on the couch and wrapped himself in the blanket Aziraphale had knitted, looking very cozy and content.
Fall came with a vengeance that year, swirling with freezing temperatures before the trees had even lost their leaves, and that lead to the scarf.
Crowley looked particularly tarty that day, with a shirt that revelad most of his chest. “It’s called fashion, Aziraphale,” Crowley had claimed when the angel had given him a look.
“It’s called asking for walking pneumonia,” Aziraphale grumbled back and went to fetch the ancient scarf that still looked perfectly new.
“At least put this on,” he said, wrapping it around Crowley’s neck and tucking the ends into his coat. He fussed about, fingers brushing over Crowley’s jaw and neck and even a sliver of chest, to get the scarf to lie perfectly.
Crowley didn’t complain. In fact, he practically encouraged it, eyes sliding shut like a cat basking in a sunbeam as he tilted his chin up.
"There," Azirapahle said, finally. He stepped away before his hands could continue touching. "Quite handsome, don't you think? And now you'll not have a chance to catch a chill."
Crowley hummed in agreement. “Warm like toast.” And then he slipped out the door.
Aziraphale eventually had to give Crowley the mittens. He had the mittens and he had given Crowley everything else, they were the only thing left. He thought about throwing them away or unraveling them, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He also wasn’t sure he could bring himself to give Crowley the mittens until the demon rather forced his hand.
Crowley was having a fun snowday with The Them, tossing snowballs and building snowforts and creating snowmen, or rather snow people according to Pepper. When he returned to Anathama's kitchen where Aziraphale had been discussing occult matters with her, his hands were frighteningly red.
Aziraphale held them between him hands and gently warmed them while Crowley wiggled in his seat.
“You worry too much,” he sighed when Aziraphale brought their hands to his lips to blow warm air on them.
"It will hardly be too much when you loose your fingers," snapped Aziraphale, even though he wasn’t sure either of them could loose fingers to frostbite.
Crowley shrugged. "Not sure how it can be helped, angel… don’t exactly have anything to cover them with."
Aziraphale knew it was time. He could have, of course, simply miracled up a nice, new, pair of mittens. Even nipped down to a local shop and picked up a pair. But instead he rustled around in the bag he brought that did not have the mittens in it before and reluctantly pulled them out.
"Now, Crowley, before you say anyth--" Aziraphale began, hoping to explain the quality, but he was soundly cut off by Crowley snatching the mittens from him.
"Knew you made mittens!” Crowley crowed. “How could you not have made mittens... course you made mittens... hat, socks, jumper, blanket... mittens!" He slipped them on, admiring them from all angles.
"Ohhh, best ones yet, angel," Crowley grinned, practically glowing. "Lots of love in these!"
Then he froze, glancing up at Aziraphale, thinking perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned that. Perhaps it was just Aziraphale being Aziraphale, just giving off angelic vibes while doing something to pass the time. Perhaps, now, the wonderfully warm and caring feeling Crowley got from each item would stop.
Aziraphale felt his cheeks warm. "You knew? All this time?"
Crowley softened. "Course I knew. Can't help but feel it... locked into every stitch.” He smiled, soft lines creasing around his eyes before a hit of worry set in. “Unless you didn't mean to..."
Aziraphale shook his head. "No! I mean, yes of course. I meant to. I... I wanted to give them all to you so many times, Crowley, over the years. Well, not the mittens, look at those..." Azirapahle wrinkled his nose.
Crowley pulled them close to his chest, just in case Aziraphale tried to take them back. "They're mine now, Aziraphale. Never giving these up. Never giving any of it up."
They gazed at each other, soppily, until Adam leaned in from the living room. He wiped hot cocoa from his mouth. “Come on, Mr Crowley, we’re ready to play again.”
“Coming,” Crowley called and gave Aziraphale’s hand a quick squeeze.
Through the slightly cracked open kitchen window, Aziraphale heard Crowley showing off the mittens and The Them gushing compliments. Or, at least, Aziraphale assumed that a delighted sounding squeal of “those are hideous!” counted as a compliment for a twelve year old.
And while Anathema brewed a fresh pot of tea, chattering about lay lines, Aziraphale began to plan his next knitting project.
Summary: A/ziraphale has been looking forward to dinner plans. Cr/owley’s demonic immune system decides otherwise.
~
“Crowley, darling, are you planning on being a snake all evening?”
Snakes cannot blink or shut their eyes, but the snake blinked sleepily up at Aziraphale anyway. This was because Crowley did not care for the nature of physics, unless it was related to the creation of stars, which he hadn’t had occasion to do in well over four thousand years. Because of this, and because he was wanted to be, he was the kind of snake who could, despite all logicalities, blink.
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at his demon and tapped his foot. The bookshop around them seemed timeless, but Aziraphale, being an angel, was very good with time when he wanted to be. It was rare that he did in fact want to be, but he made an exception for food. “Our reservation is in an hour, my dear. You may wish to change back.”
The snake distinctively rolled its eyes, then slithered up Aziraphale’s arm, tucking itself into the crook of his elbow like a cuddly, scaly cat. Aziraphale was wearing a sweater today, one of his softer ones, and the snake nearly disappeared amidst the fuzzy charcoal gray fabric. The snake made an unnatural hissing noise, not wholly unlike a purr, and rubbed its head along the sweater.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said irritably. “I can’t stay in these clothes for our dinner. You need to let me up so I can change.”
The snake flicked its tongue out in an unmistakably mocking motion, then slithered out of Aziraphale’s arm and onto the middle of the floor. There, it melted into a demon. Crowley still wore his shades, as always, but he was dressed, oddly enough, in the softest cream-colored sweater in Aziraphale’s wardrobe. The angel did not notice this, or how Crowley shivered a little from the bookshop’s cool air.
“Angel,” began Crowley, whose voice sounded thick and strange, “do we really need to go out for dinner?”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “I have been looking forward to this for hours,” he warned, standing up from the couch, “ever since a spot… ‘miraculously’ opened up for us. Just because you don’t always enjoy the concept of eating—”
“It’ss rough,” Crowley said. “On a haplesss demon’ss throat.”
“Hapless! Really, darling—”
The demon fiddled with his shades, glancing at Aziraphale uncertainly through the lenses. “It’s only,” he said, “that I rather feel…”
“Yes?” the angel snapped.
“…sssick,” Crowley admitted, his tongue sliding slowly over the “s” noise. This was always a sign of heightened emotion or off-ness for him, though it sometimes escaped Aziraphale’s notice.
This time, it didn’t. He raised an eyebrow and reached out with one hand to take Crowley’s. It was often nearly ice-cold, for snakes are cold-blooded, but now Crowley’s hand was hot in his own. Unnatural, that. “How long have you been feeling poorly?” he inquired.
Crowley’s fingers curled around his instinctively, and the demon shuffled closer. “Not long,” he sniffed, the congestion in his voice recognizable now. “There was a demon at the records shop. One of those plague-focused ones, gives out colds and lingering coughs and such. He might’ve done it just to ruin my day.”
“The fiend,” Aziraphale murmured. “Your throat, darling?”
“Bit raw,” he confessed. His nose was growing pinker by the second, more and more obvious underneath those dark red glasses. He rubbed at his irritated nostrils, frustrated by a tickle that had re-emerged after lying dormant during his time as a snake. It promptly fought back and sent him doubling over with a tiny, damp sneeze. “hh’issschh!”
“Oh!” Aziraphale said, startled. “Bl—oh, but I shouldn’t. You poor dear.”
Crowley only sniffled and cupped a hand over his nose and mouth, muffling another small, wet, “hh’ksshh!”
“Bl—oh, drat.”
“Sss’okay, angel,” Crowley mumbled, rubbing fiercely at the underside of his pink, pointed nose. He rubbed underneath his eyes and removed his sunglasses, exposing bleary, watery eyes. “Ugh, my head.”
Aziraphale reached up and dragged a thumb across Crowley’s cheek, biting his lip when going over Crowley’s swelling sinuses caused the demon to flinch. “Perhaps… well, I suppose our reservation could wait for a night when we both feel up to going.”
“Really?” Crowley asked unsurely. Aziraphale never canceled dinner plans for anything. He’d made a habit of dining at the Ritz whenever a near-apocalypse occurred, after all.
But the angel nodded. “After all,” he acknowledged, “I can always miracle up a new one whenever we’re ready. In fact, I believe the one we had is about to go to a very sweet couple celebrating their fiftieth anniversary.”
“Blech,” said Crowley, who was, after all, a demon. “Sentimental tripe. Fiftieth anniversary? Sounds like murder.”
“But darling,” Aziraphale said with a smile, “what are we on now? Four thousandth? No, more than that, surely.”
Crowley’s lips parted with surprise. “Angel, us meeting doesn’t count as—”
“Hush, dear, we’ll discuss the math of it later,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Now. Perhaps you’d like to be a snake again? You can sit in my lap and I’ll read aloud.”
Aziraphale read aloud the way one might expect a lifelong passionate reader to do so—doing high-pitched, terrible voices, skipping and stumbling in his haste to get to the best parts, and too enraptured by the books to get it to sound perfect. Still, Crowley loved to listen to the comfort of his voice.
The demon nodded, turning aside with another, “h’tsschh!” squelched into his cupped palms. He started to hitch, but scrunched up his nose, resigned to looking rather ridiculous while doing it, until the tickle went away. Snuffling, he melted into a snake with all the abruptness of a sickly demon trying to escape very congested humanlike sinuses.
He slithered up Aziraphale once again, settling over the angel’s shoulders like a mink stole. Aziraphale only gave him a small, secret smile, then sat back down on the couch and retrieved his book. As he started to read, the snake curled into the warmth of Aziraphale’s shoulders, the softness of his sweater, and the comforting sensation of his voice in Crowley’s ears.
His eyes were shut before Aziraphale had even finished a paragraph.
Sicktember is a month-long, multi-fandom prompt event that is taking place in September and is focused on sick characters and their caregivers.
Follow this blog for further information on the event. It will also be the place where we showcase the fics from this challenge.
Please refer to our FAQ which will continue to be updated as the event grows closer, but feel free to message us on this blog, or our personal blogs @yes-i-am-happyaspie and @obsessionoftheday if you have any further questions!
We are so excited about this event and we hope to have lots of participation! We can’t wait to read what you all create with these prompts!
scenario where a person's already sick on a gloomy day and there's a power outage in their area. no heating, just them trembling beneath a mountain of blankets, unable to get warm.
I love hurt/comfort and wish to know your rev list for those.
Oh goodness, well that’s going to be quite a few. I’m assuming you’re referring to Good Omens fics? So that’s what this list will be~ The other fics I posted in the last ask are ALSO hurt/comfort fics, so I won’t include them on this list, but they are very much worth a read. Also there’s... a lot, so I wont be putting summaries
HotCrossPigeon has a little series going, they aren’t connected so you can start with any of them which is nice. Unfortunately several of them are incomplete, but they’re still absolutely worth the read
Don’t Take It Away From Me (words: 7,112 / status: complete)
Won’t You Come Back to Me (words: 29,285 / status: incomplete)
So Still I Wait (words: 13,502 / status: complete)
Gives Me Hot Cold Fever (words: 10,458 / status: incomplete)
You Never Had a Heart (words: 12,983 / status: complete)
Take Me Home Tonight (words: 6,663 / status: incomplete)
Zeckarin also has a series. As far as I can tell, they don’t focus solely on hurt/comfort? But they have a couple fics that I really enjoy, and where it does seem you have to have read prior parts in the series, I was able to catch on to backstory pretty easily with context clues in just the parts I’ve read.
From Hell, With Love (words: 25,844 / status: complete)
Don’t Play with Hellfire (words: 7,560 / status: complete)
charliebrown1234 is on this list again further down, but they also have a series, and like the first one, you don’t really have to read them in order to understand them, but with this one I can’t see why someone wouldn’t just read them in order. They are all complete
Aziraphale vs The Hellhound (words: 4,935)
Aziraphale and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (words: 4,334)
Aziraphale vs The Great War (words: 2,500)
Aziraphale and the Desperate Priest (words: 4,523)
Aziraphale vs The Great Fire of London (words: 5,053)
Aziraphale vs Pestilence (words: 7,666)
And then Here are all the individual ones:
Hell Above by I_Fear_I_Fell (words: 8,405 / status: incomplete)
Stuck On The Puzzle by venomly (words: 44,578 / status: incomplete / human AU)
I Threw Stones At The Stars But The Whole Sky Fell by Turcote (words: 9,693 / status: complete)
Remains by indigo (indigo_angels) (words: 95,330 / status: complete)
Whenever this world is cruel to me by Mekachu04 (words: 5,112 / status: complete)
Hell Freezes Over by charliebrown1234 (words: 17,789 / status: complete)
Lot Thirty Seven - The Vault by AceOfShadows (words: 15,347 / status: complete)
Broken Hallelujah by laylabinx (words: 22,050 / status: complete)
It Was a Dark Night (But Hadn’t Stormed Since Last Tuesday) by 29Pieces (words: 10,933 / status: complete)
Something Wicked by Turcote (words: 19,781 / status: complete)
For Better or Worse by Angelina_Aintithenniel (words: 11,536 / status: complete)
The Arrangement by LadyWallace (words: 8,287 / status: complete)
like a live coal tossed in the sea by blue_spectacles (words: 63,495 / status: incomplete / C and Az don’t know each other AU / crossover but heavily focused on Good Omens)
This isn’t all the fics I’ve accumulated, but I figure it’s more than enough of a good start!
ayy for the bingo prompts!! Possibly O5 for Jon? :)
Of course!
O5: Trapped in a small space with a fever
Am I going with a trapped in the elevator route? Why yes. Yes, I am.
When the old elevator jerks and rattles to a creaking stop, with the small, dim light flickering overhead, Jon stares, for an extended moment, at the doors as if willing them to tremble and slide open under a narrow, albeit tired, gaze.
Unsurprising, the power of his sharp look does nothing for dated machinery, and he only drags his gaze away when a voice crackles from the small speaker underneath the floor buttons.
“Hello. The elevator is stuck.”
“So it seems,” Jon draws out slowly, annoyingly jabbing at his own call button. He wants to tack on more- that he’ll be late for work, that he’s incredibly busy, and, though he’s not quite desperate to mention, that he’s working around a splitting headache that spreads fire across his face.
“We’re notifying maintenance, but I’m afraid it may be a while.”
Of course, Jon thinks, shoulders sagging. Easy would be the doors sliding open in just minutes, but he can’t recall a single moment in his life that was easy. His being is surrounded with difficulties of varying sizes, and this is yet another to pen into the books.
“Anything we can do for you in the meantime, sir?”
Jon slips his phone from his pocket, once again unsurprised to see a small, red X covering his signal bar. “Phone my work,” he starts, voice cracking slightly, throat stinging more than the night before. “The Magnus Institute. Let them know of my... situation.”
He tunes out the quick chatter that follows, instead sinking to the ground and drawing his knees up to his chest. The elevator’s small, its size fitting for the older apartment building. It’s already too warm, if the heat rolling from his face is any indication. His skin’s practically prickling across the ecompassing heat, and he fumbles out of his cardigan until he’s left tugging on his shirt collar and wondering how to tell when he’s fully suffocating under the pressing heat.
***
“Martin.”
Martin jumps, a small squeak clawing up his throat. He whips around mid-conversation with Tim to see Elias slowly dissecting him through gaze alone.
“Y-yes, sir?” He stutters, swallowing thickly around the lump forming in his throat. His eyes find the floor, a nervous habit, an inability to hold eye contact when backed into a situation such as this.
“It would appear our archivist is... trapped in an elevator in his apartment building. I need you to go and encourage the maintenance crew to work significantly faster as there’s much work to be done.”
Tim chokes back a laugh, masking his amusement through a few fake coughs into his fist. He peers around Martin, arching a single brow.
“Mind if I join him, boss? Do a whole good cop, bad cop routine?”
A flicker of annoyance tugs at Elias’s lips, threatening to give way to a tight frown, and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Just make it quick, and do not come back here without my archivist.”
***
Jon can’t recall when he started shivering, when the heat heightened and gathered across his face, leaving the rest of his body uncomfortably chilly, but he can’t seem to stop. He wrestles with his cardigan, pulling it back on through jerky movements, and he tugs it tightly around himself, making himself impossibly small and tight in an already small and tight space.
His awareness is fading in and out. He know he hasn’t been in the elevator long. He also knows that he doesn’t feel well at all. His jaw hurts from the persistent chatter of his teeth, and his bones ache in a way that vastly differs from too many hours hunched over at his desk. He doesn’t trust his voice as it feels raw in a way that’s unlike the sensation of speaking into a tape recorder for hours.
Where his awareness lacks is why. Sure he’s familiar with running himself ragged, as Tim and Sasha point out to him far too often, but this feels different. Yet, he can’t concentrate as to why it’s different because his head is a jackhammer that won’t ease.
He drops his forehead atop his bent knees, hissing around the aggravating chill that won’t let up, and he drifts.
***
“Want to bet on how many of these poor blokes he’s yelled at so far?” Tim smiles easily, eyeing the various maintenance crew members who are all working quietly and quickly at the elevator.
“No, Tim, I don’t want to bet on something like that,” Martin groans, frowning, a look that’s plastered itself to his lips and hasn’t let up since leaving the Institute. “Let’s just... let’s ask someone what’s going on.”
When Tim doesn’t reply, Martin turns, brows furrowed, to see that Tim’s wandered off to chat with a woman barking orders right in front of the elevator doors. Shaking his head with a low huff, he quickly walks over to them, catching the two mid-conversation.
“-about an hour now, I suppose. He’s been awfully quiet.”
“Quiet,” Tim spits out, brows raising. “You mean he hasn’t been raising hell this entire time?”
“No,” the woman’s tone drifts as she brings her gaze down to the iPad in her hands. She taps a few buttons until a grainy camera feed fills the screen, showing Jon curled up in a corner.
“Yikes,” Tim mutters under his breath, motioning for Martin to take a look. “He looks rough.”
“He’s been sleeping on and off. He appears quite uncomfortable, though given the circumstance...”
“Can we speak to him?” Martin interrupts, and Tim pulls a sharp gaze to the unfamiliar color coating Martin’s tone, a dark, serious color he’s not used to hearing.
“Martin?”
“Something seems wrong,” Martin elborates. His gut’s twisted with a new presence of anxiety that he couldn’t ignore even if he willingly tried. Jon should be raising hell, a passive, dangerously softspoken hell, and yet... he’s morphed himself into a tight, seemingly unresponsive ball, and that, to Martin, is just all levels of wrong.
“Sure,” the woman motions to the small, worn speaker under the floor buttons on the wall. “Go ahead and take the camera. He’s only been responding to us via shaking or nodding his head as of thirty minutes ago.”
Martin shuffles to the speaker, thumb ghosting over the call button. He spares a glance over his shoulder, meeting Tim’s eyes, sharing a silent, brief conversation, and then he presses the button.
***
“Jon?”
Jon’s dreaming, he decides, the familair voice a distant echo that’s just too far.
“Jon? Can you hear me?”
Frowning, Jon rolls his head toward the voice. It sounds closer yet oddly unattainable.
"Wake up, Jon.”
It’s the last thing Jon wants to do by any means, yet he cracks his eyes open into small slits, opening them wider when he hears a sigh followed by a different voice breathing out a “thank god” from the speaker.
“Jon, it’s Martin and Tim. We’re just outside. How are you doing?”
Jon considers that he should move to press the button next to the speaker so he can tell Martin that he feels dreadful, but his body feels like lead, and he’s sure his legs won’t be able to support him if he tries. He opts, instead, to shake his head with a wince, and he coughs weakly, frowning at the new development.
“Jon, what’s wrong? Can you stand?”
There’s panic in Martin’s voice, his tone far too quick and a tad usteady. Jon shakes his head again and crosses his arms, fingers digging bruises into his skin.
“Are you hurt?”
Martin’s shouting now, alarmed, and Jon winces at the loud crackle that mixes in with his voice. He shakes his head again and points to his forehead, hoping the unspecific gestures will speak what he physically cannot.
“What- Tim, what’re you doing?”
“Boss, does your head hurt?”
Sighing deeply, Jon nods.
“How about the rest of you? Feeling too hot and too cold?”
Frowning, Jon drags a slow gaze around the elevator until he spots the small camera in the corner. He stares at it, brows furrowed, and he nods slowly, noting the sharp hiss and muffled arguing from the speaker.
“Tim, what? How do you-”
“He’s most likely got the flu. It’s been going around the office. I had it a few weeks ago myself, and it’s miserable. I doubt he’s slept properly last night, and who knows when’s the last time he’s had a sip of water. I’m going to move this along.”
Jon’s stomach twists uncomfortably at Tim’s words. He wants to argue; he wants to assure the two that he’s not been stricken with something as mundane as the flu and that he’s perfectly fit to go to work as soon as someone gets him out of this damn box. Yet, he can’t find an ounce of physical energy to feed his wants. He can only curl further into himself, dropping his head back atop his knees, and he’s already drifting once more.
“Just hang on, Jon. We’ll get you out.”
***
It’s another two hours before the elevator rumbles back to life. Jon’s asleep when it happens, but he wakes to two sets of hands hovering over him, crowding him, feeling his forehead, mouths moving far too fast yet too slow to beat around the ringing in his ears.
“-burning up.”
“Yeah, he’s completely out of it. Boss? Jon, you with us?”
Something cold is suddenly being pressed to Jon’s lips, and he welcomes it, his throat bobbing against the cold water. He reaches up to wrap shaking, greedy fingers around the bottle. He takes in big swallows until his lungs quake with a need to cough, and then he sputters around some water and coughs harshly into his fist.
“-shouldn’t go to work like this. I’ll call Elias.”
“Okay, I’m going to take him back up to his flat. Get a read on the fever.”
“Sure. I’ll meet you up there.”
Jon’s suddenly being pulled to his feet, and he moves with the steady grip on his arm. His legs immediately begin to cramp and tremble, and he sways, eyes glassy, unfocused, but then someone’s wrapping an even steadier arm around his waist, and the person is grounded, warm. Jon drops his head to the crook of the person’s neck, shivering, exhausted.
“It’s alright, Jon. We’re here.”
Martin. Jon hums lowly, pressing himself impossibly close to Martin, leeching Martin’s warmth. He can feel the elevator moving around them just as much as he can feel the worried side gaze on him. “I don’t feel well,” he admits, half-faded.
“I know, but we’re going to take care of you.”
Martin’s voice, like his arm, is steady, even, and Jon nods against Martin’s neck. For once, he allows himself to abandon control and place his trust into someone else’s hands, clutching onto the knowledge that Martin and Tim are here and that Martin and Tim will help him.
Tim and Sasha organize an Institute Halloween party and somehow talk Jon into going though he really doesn't want to. Everyone thinks it's because he's Jon "I have no social life" Sims but it's really because Jon hasn't been feeling well and is trying to hide it. So he goes with the intention of not staying long but does and ends up paying for it.
When someone is feeling weak, feverish and absolutely miserable and finally getting hugged. They shudder and get even weaker in the knees at the same time. Not only lean into the touch but sink into the others arms. Shivering violently with a deep sigh.
Because oh god that feels so good. They needed this warm, protective and caring embrace so much.
Bonus: If their itchy nose choses this moment to almost explode with a harsh, productive cold sneeze. Muffled right into the others chest. They mumble a bleary apology but their caretaker just rubs their back soothingly. “Bless you, it´s alright. Let´s get you to bed.”
*shows up after a month of nothing with starbucks* look its bad but its been in my WIP since august
Tim woke up to a dull ache in his stomach.
He groaned, it was annoying but not so bad that it would affect his daily working, so he rolled himself out of bed, pausing only momentarily at the nausea he felt.
He ignored it, got up, and continued on his morning, eating only toast and drinking coffee, before getting dressed, which he found to be more painful than necessary, and left his apartment.
The commute to work was fine, maybe the lights were a little brighter then they had the right to be, and even the noises he heard were painful, somehow sharp and dull.
He got off at his stop, and made his way into the institute, putting on a fake smile and winking at Rosie as he walked to the Archives, before moving as fast as he could without causing the ache that has yet to subside to get any worse.
Jon was in, always was by the time he showed, but today Martin and Sasha were in too, must’ve been later than he thought.
He shrugged it off, and sat at his desk, not feeling well enough to even try to have a conversation, not that it would go well, the pain was distracting and lip-reading was never completely successful anyway.
A little while later, after he exchanged a quick and quiet greeting, Martin tapped him lightly on the shoulder and signed to him.
“Are you okay?”
Tim smiled, he knew he could tell Martin, but he didn’t want to worry anyone over something he knew was nothing, so he signed back
“Tired, I’m alright”
Martin didn’t look convinced but smiled softly at him.
“Ok, let me know if you need anything.”
Tim smiled and nodded back, and Martin shuffled back over to his desk, sharing a glance with Sasha Tim was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to see.
Martin was worried, Sasha would say he was always worried, but it was different today.
Tim was quiet, his face was lined with pain, and his eyes weren’t quite as vibrant.
It was a little while later when Jon emerged from his office, his hair done in a bun at the base of his head, his cane tapping on the floor, Martin quickly and quietly grabbed his phone and sent a quick text to Tim, hoping he’d get it before Jon made his way to their desks.
He didn’t, and before he knew it Jon was leaning against the door frame, observing them, they mostly pretended to work.
“Goodmorning, Jon! How’re you today”
Martin was trying to distract from Tim a little bit, hoping he’d be able to hear him enough to snap him into focus on Jon, but Tim seemed like he was in another world.
“Better if you were working.”
And with that Jon left, Sasha rolled her eyes and gave Martin a small smile, but he was more concerned about Tim.
He walked over to his desk and tapped him lightly again, it took a second but he came to and looked at Martin, his eyes were glassy and his face was pale.
“What’s wrong?”
Tim looked tired, and he sighed.
“Not feelin the best, nothin to worry about.”
Martin scanned over the other man’s frame, before lightly pressing the back of his hand to Tim’s cheek, moving it to his forehead, before removing it and signing again.
“You’re burning up, what’s going on?”
Tim was pretty sure he whined at that point, if he admitted he was sick he’d need to go home and he would be alone.
He didn’t want to be alone.
Whenever he had fevers he would get emotional, he knew this, so when Martin brushed his finger on his cheek, he didn’t even know he was crying, and that only made him start crying harder.
He felt someone else touch his arm, and looked up to see Sasha, with a bottle of water in her hand, he shook his head, the nausea from earlier coming back in full force.
He took a breath, he wouldn’t be sick, couldn’t be.
“I’m fine, I can work, I’m fine.”
Martin frowned, but wasn’t backing down, signing again, this time more demanding, but somehow still soft.
“Go lay down, at least, for a little while.”
Tim knew this wasn’t a fight he could win, and Sasha already had grabbed onto his arm and began to pull him up, steadying him when he starting to fall, and Martin vanished off outside of the office.
Sasha laid him down on the old couch, and he curled as small as he could into a ball, and he opened his eyes enough to see Sasha squint at him with concern in her eyes.
Martin was there the next time he opened his eyes, he had a blanket on him now, and Martin was holding a thermometer, Tim opened his mouth and let Martin take his temperature, he didn’t hear what it was, and he last saw Martin sign rest before drifting off to sleep.
Martin sighed, and sat back at his desk, Tim set up across the room with a blanket on a couch, a bucket next to his head, burning with fever.
It wasn’t hospital bad, but he also didn’t feel comfortable leaving Tim alone, and from Tim’s reaction, he didn’t want to be alone either.
Sasha had mentioned he looked like he was curling around his stomach, but stomach pain and fever could’ve been a number of things, and he thought it best not to worry about the what if’s.
“Martin, why is Tim sleeping on the couch.”
Jon was something he did need to worry about.
“He- uh- he wasn’t feeling well, and I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone or him taking the tube, and I didn’t think he wanted to be alone either, so he’s sleeping on the couch until after work”
Jon didn’t seem happy with this.
“If he is that ill he needs to be home, not infecting the whole staff.”
Martin was sure he was about to make more complaints and arguments but was cut off by Tim, whining quietly and stirring on the couch.
Martin got up and walked over, running a hand through Tim’s sweat-soaked hair as he tried to curl deeper into himself.
Sasha walked over to stand next to Jon, watching Martin in his natural habitat of caretaking, as Tim had called it.
“He can stay, just don’t get sick, and if he gets worse take him home, you better work overtime next week.”
It was around two hours later that Tim started to get worse.
Martin was working quietly at his desk, finishing up notes on some statements, and tracking people down for research when he heard Tim start to cry.
He quickly made his way over to Tim, just as he did Tim heaved and weakly gripped the bin in front of him.
After he was done being sick, Martin lifted a water bottle to his lips, not wanting him to dehydrate further, and went to move back to work, but Tim grabbed onto his arm, with surprising strength for how sick he was.
Martin sighed, he needed to work, but he also knew that being sick was bad enough at home, let alone on an old couch at work.
He adjusted Tim and sat behind him on the couch, the other man immediately curled around Martin, still trying to make himself smaller, and he winced as he moved.
Martin frowned and grabbed his phone, not able to sign with Tim basically on his lap, and not thinking Tim would be willing to sign back at all, so he quickly opened his notes and started to type.
‘What’s wrong?’
Tim looked offended by the light in his eyes when martin showed him the message, but ultimately grabbed the phone weakly and typed back.
‘Stomach hurts bad’
Martin frowned, but set his phone down and started to run his hand through Tim’s hair.
Jon walked in a little while, and crept over to stand next to the old couch, his cane tapping gently, he quickly reached out and brushed his hand awkwardly on Tim’s forehead, and sighed.
“Take him home, and keep me updated on him.”
Martin was surprised by this, Jon had always tried to remain professional and distant, but he didn’t want to question or argue with him.
He stood up, Tim groaned at the movement, but after a little while of getting ready to go, they made their way slowly to Martin‘s car, where Tim immediately curled into his passenger seat.
He drove him to his flat, not planning on leaving him alone for a while, and when he got to his place, he gently shook Tim awake, and they slowly made their way up to the flat.
After he unlocked the door, he settled Tim onto the couch, and switched out his bedsheets, and carefully ushered Tim into the bedroom.
Tim settled into the bed with little prompting, and Martin tucked a fuzzy blanket around his shoulders, and he left the room to get a cloth and cold water.
He was returning to the bedroom when he saw Tim curled up into a ball, sobbing, he was biting his lip so hard martin thought it was drawing blood, he quickly set the water on the side table and immediately sat next to Tim on the bed.
He knew that getting Tim to watch him sign or read whatever he typed would not work and that Tim probably wouldn’t be able to process what he was saying, so he hoped his movements were clear enough.
Martin suspected he knew what this was, so after he had moved Tim so he was laying out, flat on his back despite the obvious pain this caused, Martin lifted the shorter man’s shirt and pressed his hand on to the lower right side of Tim’s stomach.
At that, Tim let out a cry of pain, and immediately curled back around himself, and Martin knew what the next step was- the hospital.
First, he decided, he needed to tell Sasha and Jon, both had been worried, and they should know what was going on
Archival Gayng
Milk Kartin Blackwood- hey just so you two know im taking tim to AnE
Braincell Holder- What? Is everything okay? Do you need me to meet you there?
Bossman- Why does he need to go to AnE?
Martin Kartin Blackwood- i think he may have appendicitis but im not sure
Braincell Holder- Shit
Braincell Holder- I’ll meet you there
Boseman- Doesn’t appendicitis mean he will need surgery?
Martin Kartin Blackwood- yeah, i know that is more time off, but jon he is sick i don’t really care rn
Bossman- I don’t care about that right now.
Bossman- I care that my friend and employee might need surgery.
Bossman- Sasha, you’re still at the institute right? Can I come with you?
Braincell Holder- Of course, Jon, meet me outside in five. Martin, bring Tim to the hospital.
Martin Kartin Blackwood- ok
Martin sighed, and carefully maneuvered Tim in his arms so his head was tucked into the other’s neck and carefully grabbed the blanket that was around Tim and repositioned it over him again.
He quickly slipped on his shoes and grabbed the keys, and carried Tim out to his car where he once again curled into the passenger seat, his hands clutching his stomach.
Martin bit his lip as he got into the driver’s seat and started the drive to the hospital, it didn’t take long and when he got their, Sasha and Jon were standing in front of her car, Jon fidgeting with his hands and Sasha typing rapidly on her phone.
When he pulled in and was spotted, they immediately rushed over to where he parked and approached Martin anxiously as he got Tim out of his car, and immediately began to flutter around, trying to help.
By the time they had gotten Tim into the waiting room, Sasha and Martin began answering the questions on the sheet, and Jon sat quietly next to Tim and rubbed slightly awkward circles on his back when he curled over in pain.
When Tim was ushered into an exam room, Martin went with him, the others in the waiting room, and after some time, the doctor shared his suspicion, and he was taken away to a CT scan to get a confirmation.
After some time, the suspicion was confirmed and he was taken to surgery, and Martin was walked back out to the waiting area, left to explain the situation to Jon and Sasha.
Jon started to pace ten minutes after Tim had been taken back, and after another five of pacing, Sasha finally spoke up.
“Jon, are you alright?”
Jon stopped pacing and sighed.
“I’m just worried about Tim…”
Martin set his large hand on Jon’s shoulder, and the smaller man seemed to lean into it.
“It’ll be okay Jon, Tim is healthy, and appendicitis isn’t normally deadly if caught on time.”
Jon sank down on a squeaky hospital chair next to Sasha, and put his head in his hands, running a shaking hand through his hair.
“I know, I know, I just..”
He groaned, again, and Martin had to take a second to take it all in, Jon looked so incredibly.. different?
So far from the normal painfully professional and emotionless self he showed at the office, and Martin was then reminded that he was the odd one out here, he didn’t work in research with Tim, Sasha, or Jon.
He sighed and tried to push down the cold feeling that crept up his spine, and ignored the fact that he swore he could see fog seeping into the room from a closed door.
He sat on the chair next to Jon, and they all sat silently and waited.
When Tim woke up, all he was aware of was the pain in his side.
He groaned and quickly moved his hand to cover it, but was stopped by the feeling of a tug in his arm, and a hand on his shoulder.
He pried open his eyes to see a worried Sasha looking down at him, but with the worry managed to be relief as well, and that was when the last twenty-four hours came back to him.
He sighed and pushed himself carefully into a sitting position, Sasha worriedly helping him, and he looked over and saw Martin asleep against the wall, and Jon leaning into him.
He was still tired and hurt, but he knew he would be taken care of, so he let himself fall asleep to Sasha helping him lay back down and running her hands through his hair.
