sweat
Summer Omens: Day 10 (on AO3 here if you prefer)
The Bentley skidded around the curve in the road at breakneck speed, mere inches away from the bright red sports car he’d been tailing for miles now. To his left, the snow-covered cliffs towered above him; to his right, the guardrail and the abyss. Sweat dripped down his face, fogging his glasses. Another icy curve, and he seized the chance to steer onto the shoulder, a shortcut that finally put him in the lead. Behind him, the driver of the red car gestured angrily. In the seat next to him, Aziraphale gasped and asked if it was really necessary for him to drive so fast. It was, if he were going to make it to the weapons factory before the bomb detonated. He had mere minutes left. “Almost there. Come on,” he begged through clenched teeth. With the sleeve of his tux, he wiped his forehead. A drop of sweat stung the corner of his eye. The heat in the car was growing unbearable. Up ahead, as they rounded the next turn, he spied the factory.
With a frustrated groan, he yanked the wheel to one side and jammed his foot on the brake. He came to a stop in the middle of the road, forcing the red car to skid to a halt, too. Slowly, he turned to Aziraphale, who stared at him, dazed and terrified and thrilled, and said, “Since when is Moscow hotter than the surface of the sun? I can’t stand this.”
And then he awoke, gradually recognizing the feel of his silken pajamas and the touch of his expensive sheets, furious at the nonsensical heat in his dream that, unlike the other elements of the fantasy, he had definitely not imagined for himself. A strange weight lay on top of him. His eyes took minutes to adjust: definitely a few months, then. What did he last remember? Something about cake? A phone call, yes, and Aziraphale prattling on about all the baking he’d been doing since… Oh, he sighed. Right. That whole fucking mess.
Dread in the pit of his stomach, he blindly patted the nightstand in search of his phone. Has to be over now, right? When is it? June 23rd, his phone informed him. 7 missed calls from Aziraphale. 6 voicemails. A quick scroll through social media told him all he needed to know. “So the world’s still one big bleeding ball of disaster and despair, and I still can’t leave the flat. How wonderful.” And, judging from the warmth of the room, his flat was currently on fire.
He threw his phone onto the floor, then immediately felt guilty for not having checked his messages first. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Aziraphale had called just to leave voicemails, the way he used to send three, four, five letters before Crowley managed to write one back, but he should check, just in case. If anything was wrong… If something had happened while he’d been deep in self-indulgent dreams…
He sat up, muscles aching, and discovered the source of the unusual weight: a cream-colored duvet, one he had definitely never seen before. No wonder he was boiling. With a look of disgust, he tossed it aside. “Where did you come from?” he asked it. It kept its secrets.
Just then, the door opened an inch, then another. Then it burst all the way open to reveal Aziraphale, a look of excitement on his face. “You’re awake!” he shouted, and Crowley winced, still not fully acclimated back to the land of the living.
“What’re you doing here? Thought there were rules,” he grumbled.
At that, Aziraphale deflated just a little, but his eyes sparkled as he studied Crowley. “There were. There are. But I did some thinking… Someone had to water your plants while you were asleep–”
“My plants?” Crowley snapped.
“And,” Aziraphale continued, unfazed, “keep an eye on you, and, well, I won’t reopen the bookshop until it’s absolutely safe to do so, so it’s not as if I’m needed there.”
Crowley blinked. Through the fog of his sleep-muddled mind, he could still recognize flimsy excuses when he heard them. With a smirk, he asked, “So you broke the rules? For me?”
“They said you could leave your home for essential reasons. I felt it was essential. I wore a face covering on the walk over. And I’ve been here ever since.”
“My, you’re such a rebel, angel,” he said with a yawn.
“Oh, hush, you.” Pursing his lips, Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed. “Feeling rested?”
“Would’ve slept for another week at least if I hadn’t been suffering from heat stroke and– You did that!” he realized, waving a hand angrily at the duvet.
“You were freezing when I got here. The whole flat was positively arctic.”
“I sleep best cold. Would’ve been just fine.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you touch the thermostat?”
“No. Is that the flat silver object on your desk? The one with the apple on it? It has been making noises, but I didn’t want to pry.”
Crowley rubbed his face vigorously, and his hands came away slick with sweat. “Then why is it sweltering in here?”
“I did miracle it warmer,” Aziraphale admitted. “Only a little. You felt so cold.”
“And?”
“And I have been baking, to pass the time. Most recipes require the oven.”
“And there you have it,” Crowley said, and he fell back on the bed and kicked the covers off.
“I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable.” Aziraphale scooted closer to where he lay. “I was worried about you. And a little bored, I suppose.”
“It’s fine. I get it.” Being woken up never put him in a good mood, but there was something else nagging him. Aziraphale waited patiently as he figured it out. “Thought it’d be over by now.”
He felt a comforting hand pat his ankle. “I know. So did I.” The darkened room fell silent as each of them retreated to their thoughts. After some time, Aziraphale asked, “would you like me to leave? Are you going back to sleep?”
“No,” Crowley said immediately. “No, don’t leave.” Groaning, he sat up again. “It’ll be significantly less miserable with you here.”
At that response, Aziraphale beamed with pleasure. “Yes, it will. We can keep each other occupied. If you hurry and wash up, you can try a macaron fresh out of the oven.” He patted his ankle again, then stood. “Off you go,” and he left the room, leaving the door ajar.
Crowley ran his fingers through his hair, getting used to the new length. He imagined Aziraphale calling and calling him. Talking himself through the reasons he’d offer up if questioned. Finally making the journey, just to discover a snoring Crowley, dead to the world. Padding around the cold stone and marble of his flat, trying not to be too loud, reading and watering his plants and baking warmth into the air. He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. Shaking his head, wondering how he had lucked into Aziraphale moving in with him, at least for the time being, Crowley pushed himself up and out of bed.
(Previous days: sand / ice cream / burn / camp / grass / pride / bloom / sunset / freckles)
