the ineffable misery of mortal ailments, OR, the story of one exceptionally reluctant demonic patient (good omens, ineffable husbands, m/m, part 1/?)

[curlyq9393]

*sneaks in, waves sheepishly, leaves this on your doorstep, backs away slowly*

(the next bit will have more sneezing)

 

“Crowley?”

 

“Mfmmmfm.”

 

“Crowley?”

 

“Mmmmpf. What?”

 

Crowley slowly opened one yellow eye and peered groggily at Aziraphale from behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked as he almost always did when he was talking to Crowley: fond, baffled, and a bit put-out. Crowley quite liked that look.

 

“You missed our lunch date. I sat there for almost an hour,” Aziraphale said, unusually cross. “Were you sleeping?”

 

Crowley stretched his long arms, twirling his wrists until they popped. “No,” he said, working the kinks from his neck. Human bodies could be so inconvenient, what with their aches and pains and sore muscles. How had he never noticed it before? And why were the aches and pains so acute today?

 

Aziraphale huffed. “It looked like you were sleeping.”

 

Crowley frowned. “Well, I wasn’t.” Then, he flashed a quick smirk. “I was napping.” He leaned back on his elbows. “I invented napping, you know. You’re meant to wake up in a perfect 22 minutes feeling bright and refreshed, but instead you wake up two hours later on accident--sweaty and panicked with dried drool all over your face. Absolutely ruins you for the rest of the day. A bit of genius, that.”

 

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “You’re not telling me something,” he said.

 

Crowley grinned. “Ah, you caught me, ‘Zira!” he said. “I’m madly in love with you. Let’s marry in the spring, shall we? The weather will be colder than we expected and it’ll be awful rainy. It’s perfect.”

 

Aziraphale ignored him. “You’re hiding something from me!” he said, affronted. “You don’t hide things from me.”

 

“I do so hide things from you.”

 

“You don’t.”

 

“I do.”

 

They were both quiet for a tick, until Aziraphale raised his right eyebrow and snapped his fingers. “You’re ill,” he said, decisively. Then, his eyes widened. “Crowley, you’re ill?”

 

If Crowley had the sinus clarity to snort he would’ve done. As it was, he didn’t, so he settled for rolling his eyes. Given the glasses, the effect was largely symbolic, which made Crowley feel cross. “I’m not ill,” he said. Because he couldn’t be. Whoever heard of an all-powerful demonic entity coming down with a bit of a cold?

 

But come to think of it, he was feeling rather, well, funny. His throat hurt in a most peculiar way every time he swallowed, and his ears had this sort of achy fullness, and his chest was a little too tight, and his head felt all fuzzy and thick and slow. But ill? No. Absolutely not. Never. Unheard of. Unacceptable. Incorrect. Wrong. Bad.

 

“Crowley?”

 

Aziraphale sat down on Crowley’s bed, near Crowley but not close enough to touch, which was too bad because Crowley didn’t mind it at all, really, when Aziraphale was close enough to touch him. Aziraphale’s voice had taken on a quieter, gentler tone, and--oh fuck, that meant he felt sorry for him, and that was even more appalling than whatever was happening to his ridiculous mortal body.

 

Before Crowley knew what was happening, Aziraphale was tentatively reaching out a hand and placing it on Crowley’s forehead. “What are you--” Crowley began, indignant, but Aziraphale shushed him.

 

“You are warm,” Aziraphale tutted. “How long have you been feeling poorly?”

 

Crowley sniffled petulantly and scowled at Aziraphale. “I’m not feeling poorly,” he said.

 

“Crowley.”

 

Crowley fell back against his pillows and turned so he was facing the wall opposite Aziraphale. “Leave me alone,” he said, moodily, his voice muffled by his pillows.

 

“Crowley, for goodness sake, stop being such a child,” Aziraphale said, warm and exasperated all at once.

 

“No. Shan’t.”

 

The mattress shifted as Aziraphale stood. Crowley could picture the angel crossing his arms, his expression annoyed and guilty and affectionate in the way that only Aziraphale’s expression could be, and very nearly smiled. “Fine,” Aziraphale sighed. “Be that way.”

 

He walked towards the door and was almost out of the room when Crowley, in spite of himself, called out, “Where are you going?” Oh, and even to his own ears he sounded almost pitiful. How repulsive.

 

“To your kitchen,” Aziraphale said sheepishly, “to make some soup for when you come to your senses for once in your life, Crowley, and admit that you’re under the weather.”

 

Crowley snuggled smugly down under the blankets. “Good,” he said. “I like chicken noodle.”

 

“I know you do, dear.”

 

***

 

Not quite two hours later, an exceedingly large pot of chicken soup was simmering fragrantly on the stove (a secret recipe that Aziraphale had picked up during his travels), and Aziraphale was curled up with a book in one of Crowley’s armchairs. He was at a most engrossing part when Crowley stumbled into the room; he had a quilt draped over his shoulders like a sad cape and was sniffling pathetically into a handful of tissue.

 

“‘Zira,” he croaked. Oh, he did sound so miserable. Poor thing.

 

“Yes, Crowley?”

 

“I’m sick,” he said, his voice a wheezy, congested rasp.

 

“I know,” Aziraphale said sympathetically. “The soup should be ready soon.”

 

Crowley’s breath caught, and he peered up at the light, squinting. After a few moments passed, he exhaled and stared at Aziraphale muzzily. “Sneeze got stuck,” he said. “Ironic really, given that I invented that too. Gets stuck and you feel it niggling at the back of your nose all day, until it comes back at the most inconvenient moment.”

 

His voice rose on the final syllable and he sneezed three times, loud and throaty, into his elbow. So he’s picked up a few human politenesses after all, Aziraphale thought. How nice.

 

“Just like that,” Crowley said wearily.

 

“Gesundheit,” said Aziraphale, “and you can’t be annoyed that I said it because it means ‘good health’ in German, and has nothing to do with,” he clicked his tongue and pointed upwards, “you know.”

 

Crowley ran his hands through his hair until it was sticking up in all directions like a porcupine’s quills. “I’ll allow it, I suppose,” he said, collapsing on the sofa opposite Aziraphale’s armchair. “No wonder humans are always in such a terrible temper,” he mumbled, snuffling into the rapidly disintegrating ball of tissues, “if this is what their lives have been like for the past 6,000 years.”

 

“Well, they’re not always sick, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. The timer went off, and he moved towards the kitchen to check on the soup.

 

“I bet they are,” Crowley said glumly, “and they’ve just learned to accept it.” He sneezed again. “I’m going to feel like this forever and ever.”

 

“Oh, pish-posh,” Aziraphale said briskly as he came back into the room. He carried a bowl of soup, some crackers, toast, and a steaming mug of tea on a tray, which he situated in Crowley’s lap.

 

Crowley stared bemusedly at the items in question. “Did I have all this in my kitchen?” he asked.

 

Aziraphale blushed. “Erm,” he said, “no. Your larder was quite bare, actually. So I thought, perhaps, a teensy miracle might be in order.”

 

“Won’t it look suspicious?” Crowley asked. “You performing miracles for a demon?”

 

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Aziraphale said primly, handing Crowley a spoon. “Now, eat up. I’ve heard that chicken soup is meant to work wonders on the common cold.”

 

“‘Zira,” Crowley said slowly, delicately swirling the soup around the bowl, “if you can miracle me things to help my cold, can’t you just...miracle it away?”

 

“Ahem. Well, I could certainly try,” Aziraphale began.

 

“But…?”

 

Aziraphale sighed. “But that, I fear, would almost definitely attract unwanted and unavoidable attention from, ah, Up There.”

 

Crowley deflated ever so slightly and sipped a small spoonful of soup. “I thought so,” he said, sounding sulky.

 

He’d finished not even half the bowl when he pushed the tray away, scowling “This is dreadful,” he groused. “You must’ve done something wrong when you were making it; it tastes like paste.”

 

Aziraphale made sympathetic noises in the back of his throat. “Ah,” he said apologetically, “no, I’m afraid it’s not the soup; it’s you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve heard that colds are meant to dampen the senses quite a lot, especially taste.”

 

“That’s bloody brilliant,” Crowley said with reluctant admiration. “What misery. If I didn’t feel so rubbish, I’d be impressed. Wish I’d thought of it.”

 

He put his tray on the side table and pulled his quilt tighter around his shoulders, shivering. Aziraphale frowned. “Are you cold, Crowley?” he asked.

 

“No,” Crowley said, pouting. He shivered again. “Well,” he amended, “maybe a bit.”

 

“Scoot over,” Aziraphale instructed, easing himself onto the couch.

 

“What--?”

 

“I’m warming you up,” Aziraphale said simply, pulling the quilt over his own legs. “Sharing body heat is one of the best ways to fight off hypothermia.”

 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I don’t have hypothermia,” he said.

 

“No, I suppose you don’t,” Aziraphale mused, “and anyway, both parties are supposed to be nude for this to really work.”

 

At this, Crowley choked, though he managed to disguise it as another sneeze. Aziraphale smiled beatifically from his spot next to Crowley. “Gesundheit, dear,” he said.

 

Crowley sniffed. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, laying his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m not going to sleep,” he murmured through a yawn, “just resting...for a few minutes.”

 

Aziraphale ran careful fingers through the demon’s hair and smiled. “Of course, Crowley,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

 

[Anonymouse]

Crowley inventing the stuck sneeze is so goddamn genius... and then proceeding to demonstrate an inconvenient moment for it to return. 😍 God he is such a baby about this whole being sick thing.

A. using his miracle making powers to get ingredients to help Crowley feel better.

I love Crowley's chaos of denial while still distantly seeking comfort and attention and both hating and marveling at how clever the common cold is. And this interacrion... "Gesundheit, dear" slaaaayed me...

 

Quote

 

"I'm warming you up,” Aziraphale said simply, pulling the quilt over his own legs. “Sharing body heat is one of the best ways to fight off hypothermia.”

 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I don’t havehypothermia,” he said.

 

“No, I suppose you don’t,” Aziraphalemused, “and anyway, both parties are supposed to be nude for this to really work.”

 

At this, Crowley choked, though he managed to disguise it as another sneeze. Aziraphale smiled beatifically from his spot next to Crowley. “Gesundheit, dear,” he said.

 

Excellent work! Sweet, well written, and perfectly in character. 

[Nervous-Bean]

Ahh!! Omg it’s so great to see some Good Omens fics around here! I love the way your portray these them, can’t wait to see what comes next!

[facet]

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Edited October 31, 2019 by facet
Removed by user.

[Nervous-Bean]

Hey!! I know you sent me something on tumblr, so I drew a little snippet of my favourite bit of your story!!

here it is! hope you like it!

[curlyq9393]

I saw it and I LOVE it; thank you!!!! I want to write more of this; one of my bffs who’s also super into hurt/comfort & all that spent like hours trading head canons & I want to turn some of them into actual writing for this. 

[Nervous-Bean]

1 hour ago, curlyq9393 said:

I saw it and I LOVE it; thank you!!!! I want to write more of this; one of my bffs who’s also super into hurt/comfort & all that spent like hours trading head canons & I want to turn some of them into actual writing for this. 

!! Oh I can’t wait to read more of your stuff! I love your writing sm ❤️❤️

[Shamaël]

Your story is great! Crowley and stuck sneezes: perfect! Those two are really adorable together...

[curlyq9393]

hi hello I can't edit the title but here is part 2!!! I hope y'all enjoy it!!!!

 

Another long nap followed the soup and mug of tea, and when Crowley awoke he had no idea what time it was. The room was dark, the shades drawn. He was alone on the couch, too; he thought, perhaps, he could distantly hear Aziraphale bustling in another room, but his ears were too stuffed up to really tell for certain.

 

His ears were stuffy; why were they still stuffy? He’d taken the nap and he’d eaten some of the soup; wasn’t he supposed to be better by now? Wasn’t that how it worked? He swallowed carefully, testing his throat. Still sore. He tried to breathe in through his nose, but it was still too congested for him to manage anything more than a thick sniffle. 

 

He scowled. Well this absolutely would not do.

 

He was a demon, for Heaven’s sake, so surely he could miracle himself better? He wasn’t feeling his strongest, admittedly, but it’s not as though his magic could just go away. That didn’t happen. As far as he knew. Which wasn’t a terribly comforting thought, but he’d take what he could get.

 

So, Crowley closed his eyes and focused very hard on how it would be to feel better. He waited, and he waited some more. He willed the magic, the power, to move through his body and begin its work.

 

Instead, rather the opposite occurred.

It wasn’t so much that he miracled himself worse, exactly; he just sort of...made himself worse, through sheer force of his stubbornness. The illness, apparently, had sapped him completely of any and all powers--demonic, angelic, or otherwise. Quite without warning, his head felt as though it had been split down the middle by Aziraphale’s flaming sword. The room spun unsteadily around him, and faint nausea bloomed in the pit of his stomach. 

 

Well. Fuck.

 

He stood and staggered towards the doorway, half-blinded by the pain in his head. He wasn’t sure where he wanted to end up or what he was doing, but he did know one thing, which was that he needed to find his angel.

 

“Crowley?”

 

As if conjured, Aziraphale appeared--beaming--from the kitchen. Crowley didn’t know what he looked like, but he imagined it must not have been good, because he’d never seen someone’s expression go from cheery to horrified so quickly. It was almost impressive, actually.

 

“Crowley!”

 

Aziraphale dropped the tray he was holding, not caring as the bowls and mugs smashed when they hit the ground. He grabbed Crowley around the waist, supporting the demon’s slight weight on his shoulder. That was an issue in and of itself, Aziraphale distantly realized; Crowley was much too thin. “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale fretted, sounding near tears, “what did you do?”

 

Crowley tried to answer, he really did, but all this served to do was intensify his headache. “Angel…?” he managed to rasp out.

 

And that was all he was able to do, because suddenly--and almost blessedly--cool darkness closed in around him like a curtain at the end of a long play. He felt his legs buckle beneath him, and the last thing he saw before he collapsed was Aziraphale’s terrified face. Which made him sad; not the face, he loved that face, but that Aziraphale looked so terrified, and all because of him.

 

***

 

When Crowley’s eyes fluttered open, he was immediately aware of two things:

1. His entire body hurt in ways it hadn’t since he fell, and

2. His head was pillowed on Aziraphale’s lap, which was delightfully soft and warm.

 

He tried to speak but his voice failed him. He cleared his throat, wincing. “‘Ziraphale?” he said.

 

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, placing his wonderfully cool hands on Crowley’s forehead. “Oh, Crowley, thank goodness you’re awake.”

 

Crowley turned to the side, inhaling a shaky breath, and sneezed fitfully, which hurt his already sore throat and achy chest. “Htsshuh! Htnxshuh!!! ‘Tschuhh! Hih’ngxt! Ngxt! Mmh’nschhff! Ugh. Ow.” He sniffed and tried to speak further, but ended up falling into a coughing fit that lasted far too long and sounded far too rattly for Aziraphale’s liking. He rubbed Crowley’s back, shushing him gently.

 

“Don’t try to talk,” Aziraphale murmured, then kissed the top of Crowley’s head. “You’ll only exhaust yourself more.” He paused for a moment, and Crowley could feel uncertainty radiating off the angel. “Can I ask you a question?” Aziraphale asked. “Don’t speak; just nod for yes and shake your head for no.”

 

Crowley offered a shaky thumbs up. The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth twitched.

 

“Did you try to miracle yourself better?” Aziraphale asked. “Be honest.”

 

There was a brief pause, during which Crowley strongly considered lying before realizing Aziraphale would immediately know he was lying and that it was ultimately a waste of what little energy he had left, before Crowley nodded.

 

Aziraphale sighed exasperatedly. “You absolutely ridiculous creature,” he huffed, full of frustrated love for the demon. “No wonder you fainted, poor thing. You tuckered yourself out.”

 

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Fainted…?” he said hoarsely.

 

Aziraphale nodded, biting his lower lip. “Right in the doorway,” he said, sounding sad. “Why didn’t you just tell me you felt so poorly? Why didn’t you let me come to you? You gave me such a fright, sweet.”

 

Crowley sighed. “‘M sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to. ‘S’why I didn’t tell you I was badly off. Didn’t want...t’worry you.”

 

His eyes closed again. Even that brief conversation left him exhausted and limp and shivery. “Tired,” he whispered, cuddling further into Aziraphale’s embrace. 

 

Aziraphale resumed rubbing Crowley’s back. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “You’re running quite the fever.”

 

“Fever?”

 

“38.8 degrees celsius,” Aziraphale said, “or 102 degrees fahrenheit if you’d prefer, or in kelvin it would be--”

 

Crowley cracked open a single weary eye. “Angel,” he said, and his tone was effective enough that he did not have to say the next bit he had planned, which was: I get it, now please shut up.

 

Aziraphale blushed slightly and managed a small smile. He drummed his fingers on his legs and made a small thinking noise. “I suppose I should get up and--” he began, but Crowley cut him off.

 

“Why?” he said, and Aziraphale felt something tug on his heart when he realized how hard Crowley was trying not to sound anxious. “Why do you need to get up?”

 

“Well, you’ll need medicine of some sort, I expect, and I should fix you more tea, and I’ve read something called a ‘humidifier’ is supposed to help with--”

 

“No,” Crowley said, clinging to Aziraphale’s waist. “You’re warm. Stay.”

 

“But Crowley, you need--”

 

“Angel,” Crowley said, and then grimaced as if the next part caused him physical pain to utter, “please.”

 

Aziraphale flushed with surprise and delight. “Goodness,” he said, trying to hide the enormous smile threatening to spread over his entire visage, “I suppose I don’t have any choice, when you ask like that.”

[mutini]

oh my GOD this is cute, i love it so much. you've really got the character's voices down! and the hurt/comfort is so good

[Nervous-Bean]

HdhjkdsakASDJs!!!! my entire heart is melting i love the way you write their interactions so much omg

[Ignis]

a part two!!! i had seen this on tumblr through bean's art but i'm so glad to see more! aziraphale being so sweet and worried for his demon makes my heart flutter, and that last bit with crowley saying "please..." 💖 your writing is wonderful, i'm so pleased, their voices are so spot on

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Oh you blessed Aziraphale. ❤️ Such a darling when Crowley is poorly. Loving this. Thank you so much for sharing this with us. Silly demon trying to miracle himself better.

[AngelEyes]

This is amazing. Adorable babes.

[facet]

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Edited November 1, 2019 by facet
Removed by user.

[Sneesee]

So very well written! Ahhhhh I absolutely love this!!! Torturing Crowley! Lovely! 

[Masking]

❤️ ❤️ ❤️ !!!!! Aziraphale and Crowley are spot-on. Poor Crowley has such a miserable cold, doesn't he? I love Aziraphale rubbing his back and comforting him.

[Shay]

I love these two together and this was absolutely adorable!

[Privatedancer]

So adorable