An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Saturday
Zira let himself into the apartment, carrying a small bag from the chemist. He looked at his miserable sometimes-partner and daughter, both flushed with fever and exhausted.
“You both look awful,” he said. “How’s the little angel doing?”
Eden laid on the couch under a blanket, staring blankly at an animal program playing on the television. Zira felt her forehead and clicked his tongue.
“Her fever’s gone down, actually,” Crowley said. He was curled up on the armchair, wrapped up in his own blanket to ward off chills. His body felt heavy. Despite not having had a proper meal in days, he felt weighed down. Like every muscle had turned to lead and his bones were made of steel. “It spiked at two this morning.”
His own fever has remained stubbornly the same since Friday afternoon, leaving him drained and uncomfortable.
“Poor darling.”
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