Good Omens Giftfic For SneezyHolmes-Crowley, M, Illness

[SleepingPhlox]

Decided to do a little Christmas present for @SneezyHolmes I sure do hope you're still into this fandom, I couldn't really ask without potentially ruining the surprise!  So I hope you like it and it spreads some well-deserved Christmas cheer!

This story contains minor mentions of mess.

________________________________________________________________

It was slightly darker in here than usual, Aziraphale noted to himself as he let himself into Crowley's-...well, he wasn't sure what to call it. “Home” seemed entirely the wrong word. “Lair” seemed as if it would be more appropriate given the nature of who dwelled here, but it was a little too clean and modern to really feel like it fit the word “lair”. He had to admit that his cluttered bookstore might be entirely more “lair”-like than this place.

But, of course, none of that was important right now.

What was important was that Crowley had insisted to see him right away. He knew that was important because the request had ended with the words “Hurry. It's very important”.

“Crowley?” he called, tentatively into the seemingly unoccupied – Home? Lair? He'd go with apartment for now. He tiptoed down the hall carefully, as if he feared that stepping in the wrong spot would set off a booby trap of some sort. He half suspected this was a set up for an elaborate prank. “Hello?”

“I'm in here,” a voice called from the recesses of the darkness, sounding weak and troubled. It was coming from the direction of the sitting room, so Aziraphale made his way in that direction, still walking gingerly, and alert, not entirely sure which direction the threat would come from if he did in fact spring a trap. He wasn't in the mood for any pranks, no matter how funny Crowley seemed to think it was to taint his pristine clothes with marmalade and golden syrup.

He stopped creeping carefully when he came upon the woeful figure of the lanky demon, draped over the sofa, one leg bent with the knee raised over the ceiling, and one hand over his forehead in a perfect picture of dramatic suffering.

“You came,” Crowley said simply, his voice thick and heavy and sounding as if it had been dragged over gravel.

“You said it was important,” Aziraphale said simply.

“Very important,” Crowley answered with a syrupy sniff. “Matter of life and death, actually. Except mostly just death. My death. I'm dying.”

There were two possible reactions to this information: to panic at the sheer horror of the revelation, or to scoff and doubt its veracity. Aziraphale did neither. Or, more accurately, did both at once so effectively his face managed to wear two very distinct, discernable expressions at the same time.

“Why would you say that you're dying?”

“Because I...a-...hahhhGHHYehhtchhu!...I am. Look at me!”

“What exactly is wrong with you?”

“I'm dying! Are you not paying attention? My past indi-hhhhhihhh...hihhhNNGGHYtchhu!...indiscretions have caught up with me. Karma is real, and she is a cruel mistress. So, so very cruel.”

Aziraphale sighed, and looked around for the most convenient chair. This seemed like it was going to take a while, and it would probably be best to be comfortable for it. He wondered if it might be rude to make himself some tea. That was a ridiculous question, of course it would be rude.  He was a guest here, after all, no matter how disinclined to be a good host his host seemed to be. He folded his hands into his lap and gazed Crowley-ward, waiting for the inevitable outpouring of the story to begin.

He did not have to wait long.

The flame haired demon lifted his hand weakly from his forehead, uncovering his eyes, and turning his baleful countenance toward Aziraphale. His eyes were rimmed in red, but that was nothing compared to his slim, defined nose. It looked as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper- red and raw and painful. Aziraphale was certain that if he reached out and touched it, Crowley would surely yelp in pain, and it was difficult to keep himself from doing just that – not out of cruelty but pure curiosity. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a nose look so thoroughly abused.

Of course it didn't take much looking to discern the cause of the red rawness. If the pile of tissues hadn't been an obvious enough clue, the trickle of thick slime from both nostrils provided the final piece to the puzzle. And possibly the fact that the pile of tissues did not just include tissues, but several discarded and clearly well-used handkerchiefs, and – was that a dish towel?

Crowley coughing, a deep wet and rumbling cough, the effort of which raised his head off the pillow it rested on. After he sank back, his tale of woe began.

“It seemed like a really funny idea at the time,” he lamented. “Of course, it was a joint ef-...effort...hahhhNGGHYeehhtchh!...but naturally I was the mastermind. It was a brilliant idea! Of course viruses aren't my specialty so I had to...to...hahhhNGGHtchhu!...get some help with the crafting of it all, but I deserve the bulk of the credit.”

He paused for dramatic effect, clearly expecting his angel friend to ask for clarification, or express shock or...something, really. He glanced over at Aziraphale, who was looking rather unimpressed with a raised eyebrow, and decided to just continue on with his story.

“A virus that can be spread between humans, and angels. A horrible, icky, messy, gross virus. So when all you lot were hanging around earth trying to be all high and mighty and...helpful.” He spat out the last word as if it were distasteful. “There would be a chance one of you would catch this thing. And maybe even bring it back up to Heaven. Can you imagine all those uptight bastards with snot all over their faces, coughing all over each other? Brilliant!”

He laughed at the very mental image, which set off a good example of the coughing he had wanted to inflict on heavenly beings, and he had to admit, it wasn't very fun at all.  In fact, it was quite awful.

“But you overlooked one very, very important fact, “ Aziraphale noted, in a tone of voice that was far too smug for Crowley's liking. “That Demons...”

“And Angels are pretty much the same. I know, I know. Don't remind me. Still, it seemed like a good idea at the...at...the...hahhhGGHHshhu!...time...”

His nose was flowing freely now, and though he sniffled desperately, there was little that could be done about it by merely sniffling. Aziraphale was fairly certain that the polite thing to do would be not to call attention to it. In fact, he shouldn't even let on that he noticed it, so he wouldn't even look in that direction. Fortunately, it wasn't hard to convince himself not to look at the mess.  Crowley reached up and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, transferring some of the mess to the skin there. Then he just let his hand flop weakly down onto his chest as if he didn't notice or care about what he'd just done.

“So did you bring me here to try and heal you?” Aziraphale asked. “Because I'm sorry to tell you, viruses are a bit complicated. Because there are so many of them at any one given time and they all need to be eradicated to cure the illness, and the body's immune response is already in action, and-”

“I know!” Crowley groaned. “That was another genius part of the plan. Can't just cure it with a click of the fingers. No working miracles on this one. Just gotta wait. No, I...” He paused, and turned his head toward the back of the sofa as if were suddenly very interesting. “I asked you to come here because...well, I...” Another pause, this one just long enough to become awkward, until he suddenly blurted out: “I needed some help, all right? I've run out of tissues and I want some soup and some water and I feel too dreadful to get up.  I can't even get my magic to do what I want it to do. And I thought I'd call you because, well, you're an angel, you can't help doing nice things, so you'd have to help if I...I...hehhhGYEEHHtchhu!...asked.  You have to.  It's in your nature, isn't it.”

He finally decided to tend to his beleaguered nose, having put it off as long as he reasonably could. He was going to have to blow the damn thing, no matter how much it was going to hurt. He brought a cloth up to his face, wincing as it touched the painful skin there, and pinched tightly as he blew as hard as he could, expelling as much as possible to avoid having to go through this awful ordeal for as long as possible. Aziraphales face crinkled slightly in distaste at the cacophonous noise, though he did try, for politeness' sake, to keep his composure as much as possible.

“Of course I'll help you,” Aziraphale agreed. “Not because I have to but because you- Is that my scarf?” he exclaimed, his eyes now fixed on the cloth held loosely in Crowley's hand.

“Maybe. I don't know. Everything is a bit of a blur, you know...” Crowley said, with sudden exaggerated weakness. Aziraphale sighed. That scarf was a favourite – or it had been a favourite. He'd never be able to get another one like it, for the designer in Paris he'd bought it from had stopped designing, due to dying of old age some time around the 1850s. Such a shame.

Well, there was nothing to be done about that now. But he could whip up an absolutely heavenly bowl of chicken soup.

_________________________________

THE END

[SneezyHolmes]

Ahh, Phlox! I loved this! You have such a way with writing illness descriptions that it should be a crime to be this amazing! This has definitely brightened my holiday! Oh my goooood, I love sick Crowley and I really love that its because he tried to get uptight angels sick! Thank you so much for this!