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It was in the depths of January when Crowley was afflicted.
He woke up one chilly morning feeling like his nose had nearly frozen off, and if he wasn’t mistaken there was a fine sheen of ice over his cheeks. But, oddly enough, the rest of his body wasn’t quite as cold— not warm, make no mistake, but he didn’t feel as though he was in danger of losing his extremities. Crowley forced his eyes open with a low groan and sneezed before managing to sit up, rubbing at his face. His flat was as dim as always, but a small crack in the curtains of his bedroom revealed that it was mid-afternoon, judging by the weak sunlight filtering in.
Crowley sniffled, blinking blearily, and pressed the back of his hand to the freezing tip of his nose before dropping it back to the blanket in his lap. His fingers brushed against warm, soft flannel, and he looked down in surprise. All of his sheets and blankets were nothing but the finest silk (he had an aesthetic to maintain, body temperature be blessed), yet there was a soft, thick, tartan-patterned quilt tucked around him.
Crowley rubbed the slightly worn fabric between two fingers, and then reached over to grab his phone from the sleek table beside his bed. He winced as soon as he saw the date, a Tuesday in the middle of January. Crowley had gone to take a nap sometime in mid November, meaning to only sleep for a few days, a week at max… and he had apparently drastically overshot that goal. He hoped Aziraphale hadn’t been too insulted that he had skipped out on their plans for dinner in early December. Although, the angel had clearly been in Crowley’s flat, despite Crowley never having given him a key— there was no one else in the world who would have such an ugly tartan blanket.
With a long sigh Crowley swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wrapping the thick blanket around his shoulders like a cloak. Its pattern was remarkably unfashionable, but it was quite warm. When he tried to stand up, however, the world seemed to sway around him.
Crowley pressed a hand to his suddenly aching head and squeezed his eyes shut before sitting down heavily again. He sneezed. Sneezed again.
“Bless it all,” he growled, and barely recognized his own hoarse voice. His throat felt like he had gargled with holy water, his brain throbbed like his skull was several sizes too small, and now that he was paying attention he was able to take note of the shivers that wracked his body. Crowley sniffled again, and then magicked into being a silk handkerchief, which he used to loudly blow his nose. That didn’t really do much to clear the congestion in his head, so he snapped his fingers and focused on miracling himself better. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t really take.
“This is just like the fourteenth century all over again,” Crowley grumbled, and then staggered to his feet again, this time managing to shuffle out of his bedroom and into his study, the quilt still wrapped tightly around himself. To his surprise, he found a note from Aziraphale on his desk, written on his personal stationery in his friend’s neat, old-fashioned script.
My dear,
I do hope you don’t mind too terribly that I let myself in— I was a bit worried when you missed our appointment and didn’t answer your phone, I truly didn’t mean to invade your privacy or personal space. Anyway, your flat seemed a bit chilly, and your blankets didn’t seem very warm, so you’re free to borrow my quilt for as long as you need it. I hope I’ll see you at some point when you awake.
Aziraphale
Crowley brushed his fingertips over Aziraphale’s elegant signature, over the my dear, and then doubled over in a coughing fit so long and hard he was sure he lost part of a lung. “Bless it,” he muttered when he finally caught his breath again, and slowly sank into the throne in front of his desk, lolling his head to look up at the ceiling.
He must have inadvertently drifted off into an uneasy sleep, because when he suddenly startled into alertness again he had a crick in his neck and dusk had fallen outside. Unfortunately, Crowley’s little nap had done exactly nothing to cure him of whatever illness he had— it had made him feel worse, somehow, overwhelming grogginess added to his headache and sore throat.
“Gotta get out of the house,” Crowley muttered, forcing himself to stand. With great reluctance he let the tartan quilt fall from around his shoulders, and immediately shivered in the comparatively cooler air of his flat. With a snap, he changed from his pajamas to one of his usual fashionable outfits— made slightly less fashionable by the heavy overcoat he had on over top, and the thick woolen scarf wrapped several times around his neck.
Crowley bent and carefully folded up Aziraphale’s quilt, bundling it up in his arms. The fabric was soft against his hands, still a little warm, and smelled slightly of Aziraphale’s cologne, and he was hit with the sudden urge to smooth it out again and wrap it around his shoulders. But that would look absolutely ridiculous. Crowley stuffed that urge deep down in his chest, and folded Aziraphale’s note to him into his back pocket before leaving his flat with the quilt in his arms.
It was bitterly cold when Crowley stepped outside, so cold that he coughed in surprise when the chilly wind hit his unfortunately human-like lungs. And then promptly almost slipped on a patch of ice outside the door. He just barely caught himself on the wall of his flat building, bare fingers pressed against the cold stone.
“Fuck!” Crowley spat, and righted himself, regrouping. It would probably be a really bad idea to drive— between his foggy head and shitty health, as well as the weather, he was just as likely to crash his car as get to Aziraphale’s unscathed. And there was no way he was going to walk (shivering, Crowley miracled himself another overcoat and a horribly unfashionable hat), which left a cab or the underground.
Crowley sighed deeply, sneezed twice, and braced himself for the indignities he knew he would endure before making his way to the nearest underground station.
Still clutching the quilt in his bundled arms, Crowley descended into a station that reminded him uncomfortably of Hell before cramming into a train with dozens of other people. Many of whom were also coughing, sneezing, and sniffling just like him. Crowley pressed his face into Aziraphale’s quilt and tried not to think about the veritable sea of germs he was likely standing in. What had the world come to, that he had to worry about germs?
Crowley got off the underground with no small amount of relief at the station nearest to Aziraphale’s bookshop, and walked quickly through the evening. Aziraphale’s shop, when Crowley finally caught sight of it, was like an oasis of golden light in the darkness. And bless it all, this damned illness was making him all kinds of sentimental.
Crowley shoved his way into the shop, glaring at the bell above the door as it tinkled cheerfully, and then almost let out an embarrassing moan. Aziraphale’s shop was incredibly warm and cozy, just the right temperature to soak into Crowley’s bones after the freezing weather outside.
He was unwrapping his scarf when he heard Aziraphale call from somewhere deeper in the shop, “We’re closed!”
Crowley glanced over his shoulder to make sure the sign was still turned to closed, and then stepped further into the shop. He was struggling to unbutton his first overcoat one-handed when Aziraphale bustled out of the back, frowning disapprovingly. His expression changed as soon as he caught sight of Crowley in the entrance, and he beamed.
“Crowley, my dear!” he exclaimed, stepping forward and jovially taking Crowley by the shoulders, kissing him quickly on the cheek. “I’m quite glad to see you’re awake.”
Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s bright eyes, gazed at his happy smile… and promptly, accidentally, sneezed in his face.
“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, and let go of Crowley as he took a step back.
“Fuck, sorry,” Crowley muttered, fishing around for his handkerchief and almost dropping the quilt in his arms in the process. “Fuck, bless it—"
“Here,” Aziraphale said kindly, and took the quilt from him before setting it on the counter. Crowley blew his nose again, scowling, and then stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket again, followed quickly by his hat.
Aziraphale stepped closer again and gently ran his fingers through Crowley’s ruffled hair. “You look a bit unwell, my dear,” he said worriedly. “Would you like some tea?”
Crowley did his best to pretend like Aziraphale’s kindness didn’t warm his (likely nonexistent) heart, and shrugged. “Sure, I guess,” he mumbled, shrugging off his second coat and tossing it haphazardly at the coatrack.
Aziraphale gave him a soft smile. “Right, then, I’ll put the kettle on,” he said.
Crowley trailed after him, scuffing his feet on the dusty floorboards, as Aziraphale puttered around the small kitchen off his back room (had it been there before Aziraphale needed it? Crowley didn’t know) to make tea. Eventually, his throbbing head made him dizzy enough that he made his way to Aziraphale’s couch and sprawled out, kicking off his shoes before putting his feet up on one of the arms.
“You know,” he complained, pulling his dark glasses off so he could flop his forearm over his face dramatically. “I think the fact that I can get sick is proof that She has a bloody awful sense of humor.”
Smiling sympathetically, tea in hand, Aziraphale came over and pulled a chair up beside him. “Not just that Pestilence is having a little fun in his retirement?” he asked.
Crowley scoffed and accepted the proffered tea, sitting up so he wouldn’t spill. He took a small sip of tea and then muttered, “Maybe that, too.” He settled back into the couch and closed his tired eyes for just a moment to rest them, reveling in the warmth of the bookshop, the tea cupped between his palms, the comforting weight of Aziraphale’s fond gaze.
When Crowley opened his eyes again the tartan quilt was tucked around his shoulders, the tea in his mug was still the perfect temperature and politely unspilled despite the mug being almost sideways, and Aziraphale was curled up on the couch beside him. The angel was absorbed in a book, his little reading glasses perched on his nose, but he seemed to sense that Crowley was awake again and looked up.
“Hello, my dear,” he said with a small smile.
“Wha time’sit, angel?” Crowley mumbled, and had the presence of mind to drain most of his tea before setting the mug down.
“Around three in the morning, I should think,” Aziraphale replied, carefully closing his book around one finger. “Let me know if you get hungry, I hear chicken soup does wonders for sick humans.”
“‘m a demon,” Crowley reminded him.
Aziraphale’s smile widened just slightly. “I know.” He absently fiddled with his bowtie, and added, “It’s perhaps unnecessary to clarify, given the time of night, but you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. If you’re comfortable.”
Crowley exhaled slightly, as much as he could with his stuffy nose. He pulled the soft, cozy, insufferably tartan quilt a little tighter around his shoulders, enjoying feeling fully warm for the first time in a while. “Thanks, angel,” he murmured.
Aziraphale reached out and took one hand from where it rested on top of the quilt, kissed his fingertips. “Of course, my dear.”
Crowley smiled just slightly, privately (although he was certain Aziraphale saw), and settled back into the warmth of the quilt to rest, knowing that when he woke up, his angel would still be there.