Good Omens: A Lockdown Misadventure (Good Omens, Crowley)

[Akaashi]

Introduction

*de-lurks, waves*

Hi, all! I’ve been in a months-long Good Omens obsession, and in the process I wrote this lovely little one-shot. Don’t worry, it’s set between seasons 1 and 2 (closely following whenever the Good Omens: Lockdown audio is supposed to take place), so it doesn’t touch upon the emotional rollercoaster that was the end of season 2 (no I’m still not okay lol). I made this just because I wanted to, but hopefully at least someone can enjoy this strange thing I’ve created

 

Fandom: Good Omens (set between s1 and s2)

Word Count: 4415 

 

. . . . . . . . . . 

 

There was a somewhat-hesitant knock at the door, followed by a prim, if worried, voice, soft and English. 

“Er--Crowley, are you in there? Are you alright? You didn’t pick up the last two times I called, and I know you’re at home, so I thought I would just pop on over and make sure nothing--nothing bad’s happened.” 

Grumbling to himself, the demon in question struggled unsteadily to his feet, shuffling to the door slowly, the ground tilting a bit more than he typically thought it did. 

Aziraphale (Crowley’d known it was him from the first hesitant utterance) pressed on in the silence, hurriedly, as though he feared Crowley might turn him away if he didn’t explain everything in sufficient detail. “I know we just spoke on the phone yesterday, but I--I got a bit worried. And before you say anything, the lockdown’s officially been lifted now, and I’ve worn a mask and miracled myself right over, so I’ve really been quite--” 

Aziraphale fell silent as Crowley tugged the door open, trying to lean casually against the frame and allay at least some of the angel’s worries. 

It didn’t seem to work. If anything, the concern in Aziraphale’s eyes only deepened. 

“Goodness, Crowley, you’re quite pale.” 

He’d traded his usual ensemble--black jacket, button-down, and vest--for a surprisingly cozy-looking, though still black, sweater, and his trademark faintly-snakeskin boots for black fuzzy socks. The entire impression, when combined with the dark-tinted glasses he still had yet to lose but didn’t quite match the otherwise cozy vibe, was of a much more undone Crowley than Aziraphale’d ever seen before (hell forbid his neighbors saw him like this, he had a reputation to maintain). 

“Ngk,” Crowley grumbled, even that little noise marred by the congestion that had been following him around since he’d first started feeling ill three days ago. 

Some of Aziraphale’s concern cleared, then returned. His hands fluttered anxiously. “You--you haven’t taken ill, have you?” 

“Just shout it to the world in the middle of a pandemic, why don’t you,” Crowley grumbled, miracling up a satin-y black handkerchief with a wince. Doing any kind of miracle made his head pound, but he figured Aziraphale wouldn’t appreciate being subjected to the full view of his nasal secretions. 

Aziraphale took a hurried step back, though he nonetheless managed to maintain his air of sympathy. “You haven’t got... that, have you?” 

Crowley snorted, or tried to; at best it was a thick, liquid sniffle. “No, angel. I’m not human, I can’t catch that.” He sighed. “It’s just rubbish timing.” 

“Oh, well, that’s alright then,” the angel said, brightening rather more than Crowley thought was appropriate for how terrible he felt (and probably looked), the mask disappearing. “Can I come in?” 

Crowley waffled. “Probably best not to, angel,” he said apologetically. 

Aziraphale frowned. 

“... Hate for you to catch this,” Crowley explained, quietly, possibly hiding behind his handkerchief. 

Aziraphale brightened again. Crowley felt his smile could rival the sun, which was absolutely more than he could take at the moment, and even without further discussion, he began to soften. 

“That’s alright,” Aziraphale said breezily. “I’m an angel, surely your demonic germs won’t be contagious to me.” 

Crowley gave another snort-slash-sniffle. “Mm, sure.” 

“Well, I’m an angel, you’re a demon, we’re opposites! What affects you surely wouldn’t affect me....” 

“What about that last time, in...” He trailed off, looking to Aziraphale expectantly. The angel always had the particulars. 

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hedged, glancing away. 

“No, I know you know. The one in, um... er, the 1970s, I think it was? And you caught--oh, whatever I had, I don’t know. Or... or that time you had to pop down to Edinburgh, and you came back with--” 

“Yes, alright,” Aziraphale said, a tad bitterly. “Message received. I will be careful.” 

“Mm,” Crowley muttered disinterestedly, or seemed to; it might well have been the presage of the wrenching, exhausting sneeze that nearly bowled him over in the next instant. 

“Hh... hhHIH’dDTChhHUHhh!” 

He muffled it as best he could, twisting back into his apartment and away from Aziraphale and any unfortunate passers-by. A tag stuck out from the collar of his sweater, and the whole incongruity of it against his usual impeccability drew Aziraphale’s sympathy anew. 

“Goodness, Crowley, bless you!”

“Hh’fFSCHhuhh!--dod’t!” he snapped, hoarsely, slitted eyes gleaming with tears. His nostrils flared in further anticipation, apparently still unsatisfied even as he knuckled them roughly. 

Aziraphale understood immediately, chagrined. The blessing had originated in the 14th century, and he’d taken to it like a duck to water. He’d only discovered some two hundred years later that Crowley (or at least his body) didn’t take kindly to it. 

“Oh, goodness, Crowley, I--I’m so sorry, I completely forgot--” 

“S’all right,” the demon mumbled placatingly, still squinting uncomfortably. He pinched his nose shut through the handkerchief, then groaned. Neither of his ministrations had done anything, and his nose seemed quite content to torture him. 

“Are--are you alright?” The angel asked, looking appropriately worried. He dithered for just a moment before wrapping an arm around Crowley’s waist (the demon thought, suddenly, a bit giddy, of the night he’d gotten drunk off laudanum) to guide him back into the apartment and somewhere more restful. 

“Nn--couch,” Crowley protested distractedly, body still keenly attuned to the high, burning itch in his nose that had yet to fade or come to fruition.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, considering first the demon and then the apartment. The Legions of the Damned had neglected to requisition his apartment (Crowley was sure it would happen eventually, but he’d take what he could where he could get it), leaving the demon with his large, spacious, austere flat. The only portion that seemed remotely lived-in was the couch, a massive construction of black leather and wine-red pillows. Aziraphale didn’t remember seeing it before. 

That was because, up until a couple days ago, it had been a dining table. 

The angel seemed to make up his mind. “Yes, alright,” he said, guiding the demon to the ex-table and miracling up a lovely tartan blanket to wrap around his shoulders. 

Crowley looked vaguely affronted at that, but accepted the blanket without comment. He did, however, protest when Aziraphale began prompting him to sit down. 

“Really, Crowley, please sit down. You ought to be resting, and you look quite unsteady on your feet--” 

He raised a finger, face curling with need, and the angel fell silent. In a fluid motion somehow both serpentine and peakily human, he whirled away for a vicious, “hhH’iIEKchhuhH!” buried more or less into the handkerchief. His tartan shoulders shook as he gasped, then sighed, falling with more exhaustion than relief. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it, looking for all the world like he was physically biting back the blessing he apparently could barely fathom going without. Crowley, too tired, suddenly, to tease the angel about that (though, honestly, how many hundreds of years would it take?), simply flopped down into the cushions as Aziraphale struggled into the next appropriate response. 

“... are you alright?” he asked, the implied bless you so strong Crowley could almost taste it in the air, serpent-like. 

“Mn,” the demon grumbled, giving his nose a good scrub. The urge to sneeze had apparently been sated, but it still itched faintly with the promise--the inevitability--of more. 

“Right,” Aziraphale said, glancing around as though physically unable to keep still. Crowley, in contrast, sprawled a little further into the cushions, possibly trying to tempt the angel to sit next to him. 

It didn’t seem to work. The angel stayed standing, still wringing his hands nervously, though he did stare--longingly? confusedly?--at Crowley. Perhaps he was admiring the cozy tartan Crowley-burrito; the angel really did love his tartan. 

“Very good.” The angel nodded, seemed to make up his mind about something.  

“Nn,” Crowley muttered, another vague dissent. Better? Yes. Good? Or rather, very good? Certainly not. 

“Now,” Aziraphale said, clearly gathering some sort of plan, “I’m going to use your kitchen and make us both some cocoa. You rest.” He phrased the latter as a stern demand, which Crowley felt was a bit unfair. He had been resting, until an angel had showed up on his doorstep. 

“I don’t have cocoa,” Crowley reminded him. 

Aziraphale’s smile was soft, if somewhat excitedly generous. “That’s not a problem.” He could very well do some small miracling in the kitchen. He’d done quite a bit of baking recently, too, maybe he could pop some of those over as well....

“I don’t drink cocoa,” the demon spat, with a bit more of his usual malice. He tipped the edge of his tinted glasses down slightly to glare at his counterpart. 

“Oh, yes. Right.” Aziraphale looked slightly put out. He took the demon’s distaste for the drink personally. Cocoa was heavenly, and even if the demon was technically the opposite, surely he had to have some taste.... 

Crowley was on the verge of backtracking and admitting that perhaps, just this once, he could do cocoa (was it his cold or just Aziraphale, making him soft?), when the angel brightened. “Tea, then. It’ll go wonderfully with the bundt cake.” 

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You brought bundt cake?” 

Aziraphale swelled with pride. “Made, actually. You know, the baking I said I’d been doing--” 

“Yes. Yes.” Crowley said quickly. He was intimately familiar with the angel’s baking habits. Even following the burgling attempt, in which the would-be’s had been sent off with armfuls of baked goods, the angel had kept up the practice, and then some. His latest escapades had been with questionable vintage recipes from the 1900s, with varying results. Crowley glanced at the angel, tilting his head lazily, still peering over the rim of his glasses. “I didn’t know you brought cake.” 

“Well, technically I didn’t. But it’ll just take a small miracle to whisk one right over. They’re fresh out of the oven, too, you know.” 

Crowley studied the angel, nervousness reshaped into energy and purpose. Those excitement-bright blue-gray eyes bore into him, their owner’s eyebrows raised in supplication, and he couldn’t say no. He sighed. “Fine. Tea and cake, then.” 

Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, excellent. Now, what kind of teas do you have? I know you’re more of a coffee drinker--” he said, with a bit of disapproval. It was bitter, of course he disapproved of it. 

“ ‘m not, really,” Crowley said. “Not much of an anything drinker, technically.” He thought for a moment. “Except wine, I suppose. Spirits.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, a bit tetchy. He tried to get them back on track. “But--tea, Crowley. What kind of tea do you have?” 

The demon gave one of his trademark casual shrugs, complete with the slight head tilt and near-smirk. Even bundled in Aziraphale’s tartan, wilted into the couch, it was enough to make the discerning gentleman go weak in the knees. Perhaps because of those things, and the way he glanced up, pale, smudgily tired, nose delicately pink. “Think I’ve got some black tea, probably. Nn... somewhere,” he said, somewhat fuzzily. 

“Oh, excellent! That will do perfectly. I’ll be right back with tea and some cake.” 

“Nn,” Crowley muttered, slumping deeper into the couch Aziraphale apparently wouldn’t be joining him on. He’d sit up in a bit, probably. If the angel didn’t get distracted, which was a not-insignificant possibility. Eyes falling shut behind the comforting darkness of his glasses, he snuggled deeper into the tartan, curling into the couch. He’d kill (well, terrify into submission) anyone who dared point it out, but he possibly didn’t hate the tartan, especially as a blanket. 

 

As it turned out, his expectations for Aziraphale were spot-on. By the time the angel returned, humming happily to himself, Crowley estimated (very roughly) that he’d been napping--or attempting to nap, between the overall inexorable tortures of his cold--for about an hour. (It hadn’t helped. He still felt terrible). 

“Here’s your tea,” Aziraphale said, offering Crowley a mug. A black, modern, somehow sleek thing (if sleek could be applied to mugs) from his mostly-disused pantry. 

Crowley narrowed his eyes, taking in the other mug in Aziraphale’s possession. A sleek, modern, pristinely white mug. “Angel,” he spat, an accusation, tempered only slightly by the rough, gravelly timbre his voice had taken on in its hour of disuse. “What did you do to my mug?” 

“O-oh,” Aziraphale said, a bit guiltily. “I thought it would look quite nice in white.” 

Crowley considered how much protesting would worsen his headache, or perhaps his sore throat (that was a new, unwelcome discovery), then decided it wasn’t worth it. He hardly needed to add to any symptom, they were already clamoring for attention well enough unbidden. His nose twitched. “Ngk,” he muttered. “Just turn it back when you’re done.” 

Aziraphale brightened. “Oh, excellent, thank you!” 

The demon pressed his lips together sourly to keep from smiling in spite of everything. He shook his head. This angel. 

“I’ll be right back with the cake and the--you’ll see,” he said, hurrying off. 

Crowley watched him with a growing sense of foreboding. Would he have to wish for burglars as well to pawn baked goods off onto? 

Aziraphale returned a few moments later, balancing an admittedly delightful-looking bundt cake in one hand and a mountain of finger sandwiches in the other. A second trip revealed a tureen of soup and a decadently-arranged, artfully-cut platter of fruit. Crowley hadn’t known he’d possessed such stores. 

“Angel,” Crowley grumbled, very low, threateningly (or possibly just wearily), “What’s all this?” 

“Lunch,” the angel said, tilting his head winningly. “I was starting to get a bit peckish, and I thought it might help if you ate something, so--” 

“Ngk. Not hungry.” 

Aziraphale pouted. “But you said you wanted cake!” 

Crowley just stared at him from behind his glasses. 

Eventually, the angel sighed. “At least drink the tea, then. And maybe some soup?” He looked to the demon hopefully. 

Crowley sighed, his scowl deep but resigned. “Fine.” 

Another smile to rival the sun, eyes crinkling adorably. “Excellent.” 

They settled in for lunch, more or less. Aziraphale looked like his aristocratic sensibilities were crying out for a proper table to eat upon, if not also for the cutlery (Crowley’s dishes were all the same shade of black, which bafflingly included every fork, spoon, and knife). Unfortunately, said table had become couch, and they both (somewhat reluctantly) admitted that the latter was more practical. 

Crowley let Aziraphale chatter on, finding just sipping at his food an effort in concentration. Usually, their conversations were more reciprocal (Crowley’d say something brilliant, and Aziraphale would say something unintentionally funny back), but the demon simply didn’t have it in him. It didn’t seem to faze Aziraphale, though he kept swinging the conversation back around to the demon. 

“Crowley, are you quite sure you wouldn’t like to try the sandwiches? Or some of the cake? They’re both excellent, really.” 

The demon only blinked slowly, making his usual noise of dissent. He sipped at his tea, which he’d been pleasantly surprised to find was drenched in honey and lemon. Aziraphale dipped his head over the rim of his own (still white) cup, which had presumably been doctored up in a rather different fashion. 

“Or how about some of the fruit? They’re really quite lovely, it’s peak berry season--” 

“Angel,” Crowley said, the hint of a warning edging the word. Aziraphale stopped, watching him closely. He sighed. “I’m ill, I’m not hungry.” 

Aziraphale seemed to float back down from whatever food-induced high he’d been riding. The angel had such a penchant for exquisite food, was an expert at savoring every morsel, he was absolutely in danger of what he’d come to do (as indeed he had). His expression, when he turned back to Crowley from the bundt cake, held a soft understanding, an acceptance and comfort found nowhere else. 

“Right, of course, I--I apologize. How are you feeling?” 

Crowley blushed. He’d almost rather have the insistence, at least that didn’t do strange things to his innards (well, not in that way). “Fine,” he muttered. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem convinced, but let the conversation wander, meandering gently back every now and then. 

“And, um, how--how is the soup?” he asked, a touch uncertainly. The demon, studying him, noted that he was fidgeting with the remaining cake on his plate. “And the tea?” 

“Oh, excellent, angel,” Crowley nodded, vaguely Scottish in his emphasis. He took another small sip of the soup, sniffling. 

“Fantastic, I really wasn’t sure how it would turn out, it’s been, well, nearly half a century since I’ve made soup, and it’s summer, now, so...” 

Crowley did his best to nod along and make the appropriate, believing noises. Truthfully, he couldn’t actually taste, and that, in addition to his other symptoms, was remarkably distracting. It was also pissing him off. His predisposition to the serpentine lent him a preternaturally good sense of smell (even amongst ethereal beings), and not having it was... disorienting, to say the least. 

His mood was certainly not improved by the fact that, even though he couldn’t actually smell, his nose absolutely still saw fit to run, and itch, and perform a whole host of other unwanted olfactory actions. 

It was currently working itself towards what was likely to be a truly wretched sneeze (or, Hell forbid, several). 

“Hhh....” A breathy inhale, barely audible. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice, intent as he was on recounting his Great Cake (Reverse-) Robbery in its full, dramatic detail (he’d only given Crowley the brief rundown before, and had absolutely seized upon the opportunity to recount the unabridged extent of his good deed). 

“Mm,” Crowley said, or tried to, at more or less the appropriate times. The stuttering unevenness of his breath (he was trying quite hard not to give a very telling, gasping inhale) was making it difficult for him to get much of anything right. “Vehh--kgm, very good.”

Aziraphale faltered for a fraction of a second, then plowed on with enough animation that Crowley half-wondered if he’d imagined it. He certainly might have, his eyes were watering something fierce and blurring his vision quite remarkably. 

He miracled up a handkerchief in retaliation, his previous one soaked through, which turned out, wholly and entirely, to be a monumental mistake. His head pounded dully, and something in the pain or his wince or the miracle itself sparked the urge to sneeze anew. 

And not just sparked, really, but set well and truly ablaze. It burst into a searing flame not unlike the one that had wrecked his Bentley, now repaired, and this time he did not possess the mental capacity to imagine himself into being fine.

There was no time to even breathe before--

“HHhyeEHd’DTCHHuUHh!”  

Crowley bent fully in half at the waist, grateful he by some miracle hadn’t been holding either tea or soup, the sneeze haphazardly aimed at his handkerchief. His glasses tumbled from his face from the sheer violence, and he thrust them away in irritation. 

Aziraphale jolted beside him, abruptly falling silent, which Crowley would have laughed at had another sneeze not immediately barreled forward in the first’s wake. 

This time, he managed at least a small inhale (he had to breathe somewhere, dammit), eyes snapping shut as small tears sprang to their corners. 

“Hhyehh?--KTCHhyuUHh!” 

Throatier, and undeniably exhausting, if not in volume than at least in effort. 

Aziraphale tutted sympathetically beside him as he tentatively straightened. “My goodness, Crowley, bl--” he broke off, cleared his throat, apparently embarrassed by his near-blunder. “A-are you alright?” 

“Mnhh,” Crowley grumbled, the tail of that little noise possibly turning up into another quivering inhale. “Just fihhh....” 

“Right.” 

“I’m f--hhh!” The demon shook his head determinedly. “I’m fine,” he managed, very quickly, before the next hitch overcame him. 

Aziraphale watched him with a soft kind of disapproval. “You really shouldn’t try to hold them back, Crowley, it’s not good for you....” 

“ ‘m not,” the demon muttered, sulkily. “It’s stuck.” 

“Stuck?” The angel asked, as though it was a completely new concept to him. The lucky sod had probably never experienced it, though Crowley’d thought he’d suffered enough from it in the angel’s general vicinity for him to at least know of it. 

Crowley nodded somewhat morosely. “You feel like you h-have... have to...” He broke off for several long, desperate moments, to no avail, hands steepled in preparation for what wouldn’t come. “Ugh, like you have to sneeze,” he explained, embodying it intensely, “but you can’t.” 

“That sounds quite awful,” Aziraphale said, all sympathy. 

The demon sniffled a liquid little flurry. “Yes.” He looked up, tartly proud. “I created it.” 

Aziraphale’s sympathy wilted. “Of course you did,” he said with his usual disapproval. 

“Eeh.... It’s not like it’s deadly,” Crowley protested in halfhearted defense, despite knowing Aziraphale would never approve. “It’s just... annoying.” Which he could attest to quite truthfully. 

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale looked rather a bit appeased, if still slightly ruffled. “It’s the principle of the thing. To create something, just to make people’s lives more miserable--” 

“Eh,” Crowley shrugged, manhandling his nose with an almost casual air, as though he could trick the appendage into submission if he was only offhand enough. It didn’t help. “Honestly, humans are better at it than we are. They’ve ihhhn... kgm, invented the... the--hH!” 

He gasped as the feeling overtook him, mid-sentence, drawing stuttering breaths from the tired, drawn demon, who hazily held up a finger in the universal wait sign. 

Aziraphale seemed content to do just that, offering silence and a conciliatory pat on the knee through the tartan blanket. 

The contact (or quasi-contact) startled Crowley (they’d touched more frequently, over the years, but it never ceased to amaze him what it could do to his body) enough that the itch faded, marginally, allowing him to gasp into that sliver of a moment, “--invented the internet!” 

His breath stuttered to its apparent crescendo--and then dropped off abruptly, the sneeze apparently keen only on torturing him. He noted out of the corner of one watery eye that Aziraphale looked nearly as desperate as he did. 

“Goodness, Crowley,” he said with sympathetic emphasis, the entirety of their argument forgotten. 

“Mn,” He grumbled, feeling the unsatisfied urge lingering, brewing vaguely in the background. The brief roughing-up he gave his nose--hands pinching, prodding, nudging--did nothing in his favor. Heaven forbid he be spared for even a moment, apparently. 

Aziraphale watched as the hitch of Crowley’s breath rose and fell, each peak almost but not quite enough to tip him over the edge. It looked exhausting, and apparently the demon agreed with that sentiment. 

“Angel,” he began, turning the pet name to a plea. “Help.” 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what I can--oh.” 

“... hheh?...” 

Nevertheless, Aziraphale looked at him uncertainly. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Crowley bit out before another false start. 

Well, if he insisted.... 

“Bless you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, all softness and emphatic sympathy, pouring every ounce of good intent into it. 

It worked. 

“hHH!-iIE’dDTCHUHHh!” The first folded him well in half over his tartan-layered legs, muffled into his handkerchief without diminishing any of its ferocity. His shoulders, previously tight with anticipation, temporarily relaxed, then tensed once more. 

“hHY’ISXCHhuUHh! ‘YZSHHIUHhh! ... ieE’KSXCHhughHH!” 

Aziraphale could only stare as the next few barreled through him, the demon folding a little more in half with each one. His hair, adorably sleep-mussed, bounced wildly with each, freed from its usual well-moussed wave. 

These were followed, without a moment of reprieve for the ailing demon, by, “... ihHH!... hHYEI’TTSChhuUhh! ... hhh... h-hhYIE’sSChHUHH!... hh...” 

Each one required its own moment to build, its own fraught, desperation-filled second before Crowley snapped forward once more. The sheer violence of each sneeze left him, as he was now coming to expect, very little time to breathe. 

“iehh... hhHrRSXCHhuhHH!... hh’rRSCHhH-iUHh!” 

Perhaps, in fact, the blessing had worked a little too well. 

“Goodness, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, as the demon snatched a few moments of tear-stained recovery. He didn’t get a moment to respond, though, snapping forward with still more in lieu of any words. 

“... hii’IKTSZH-hHUHhh! hhEI’kZSCHhuUUHHh! ... hHYEE’ssCHHUhhh! ... hh?... hh--kgm?” 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked uncertainly, looking for all the world like he didn’t know what should follow that. 

Granted, neither did Crowley, except to sneeze again. 

One final, monumental, “hHYEIZ’ZSCHHIuhHHH!-mnh,” following it with the most pleading, openly-miserable noise he thought he’d ever heard the demon make. 

He straightened marginally, then folded over once more as a string of coughs overtook him. Aziraphale watched him worriedly. 

Eventually, Crowley recovered, unfurling back into the couch and cushions and Aziraphale, with rather less care than he usually did regarding the angel’s personal space. Aziraphale made a small noise of surprise but immediately stilled, not wanting him to pull away. 

“A-are you quite alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked after a long moment. 

Crowley blinked up at him blearily. “Id what world would adyode be alright after that?” He grumbled, so unexpectedly hoarse and congested that Aziraphale visibly winced in sympathy. 

“Ah, right,” he said, flushing. “I’m sorry, I just--” 

“Ngk, doh, I’b sorry,” the demon apologized, sitting up a little straighter. He struggled with himself for a moment, flicking golden eyes upon Aziraphale and away again, but couldn’t quite summon the words he meant to say. “I... ub....” 

Aziraphale watched him. “Here,” he offered softly into the silence, passing the demon a tartan handkerchief in replacement for the rather sodden, wrung-out one he was still clinging to. 

“Should I say thadk you?” 

“Best not to,” Aziraphale replied, the hint of a smile playing at his features. Crowley’s returning one was tired and faint, but there nonetheless. 

They sat in a comfortable silence, unusual but not unheard of for the two of them. Eventually, teased out by time or the quiet or simply Aziraphale’s air of non-judgementality (he really did know when to let everything else fall away), Crowley admitted, “Adgel, I... I really dod’t feel well. By head hurts, add that--that was just awful, add... add...” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “I really am sorry you’re feeling so miserable.” He paused a moment. “Is there... anything I can do...?” 

The demon’s snake-eyed gaze settled on him again, then lingered. They were still watery with tears, and red-rimmed, and so very exhausted. It was surely the most casual and undone Aziraphale’d ever seen him, pale and pink-nosed and vulnerable. “Stay?” he whispered. 

And for once, Aziraphale didn’t balk, or backtrack, or protest. 

For once, he simply said, “Okay,” settling more securely against Crowley and nudging him until he tilted his head into Aziraphale’s shoulder and nestled close.

And he did. 

~ fin ~

 

[snowpiercer]

Ah yes, the absolute perfect time to set a fic like this. I loved how Crowley was at Aziraphale’s mercy and had no choice but to ask for help.

[Masking]

I love this so much. Poor Crowley, dealing with such a horrible cold! It's a good thing he has Aziraphale to care for him, sympathize with him, and occasionally bless him. Love this fic.

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Ohh, I love this. ❤️ 

I love the headcannons that Crowley came up with stuck sneezes & that blessings make him sneeze. Honestly, if they're not cannon, they should be.   

I love how /ruffled/ Aziraphale is by particular things. Like the absence of a table & cutlery, Crowley not liking cocoa. Such a prissy darling. ❤️ 

And that build-up was delicious. 

Am I correct in spying some kinky!Aziraphale in there? 

[Mnn]

Hhhhhhh how can something like this be so WHOLESOME!!! They are just the CUTEST!!!

[angora48]

I love everything about this! The description of the "undone" Crowley was perfect. I giggled at Aziraphale getting so carried away with the food that he winds up leaving Crowley (to try) to nap for an hour while he conjures up tea, cake, soup, and fruit, and I loved how crestfallen he was when Crowley wasn't hungry. Aziraphale blessing Crowley to help him with the stuck sneeze was inspired!

Beautiful work, you captured both of them so well!

[Akaashi]

Omg, you guys are too sweet! I so rarely share my writing, but the sheer excitement I get from people actually liking my stuff…!!!
 

On 6/7/2024 at 10:47 PM, snowpiercer said:

Ah yes, the absolute perfect time to set a fic like this. I loved how Crowley was at Aziraphale’s mercy and had no choice but to ask for help.

Thank you! I like at least going through the pretense of fitting things into canon. And yes! For once I wanted Aziraphale to have to help Crowley 😊

 

On 6/8/2024 at 6:48 AM, Masking said:

I love this so much. Poor Crowley, dealing with such a horrible cold! It's a good thing he has Aziraphale to care for him, sympathize with him, and occasionally bless him. Love this fic.

Aww, thank you! They’re very good for each other, aren’t they haha. 

 

On 6/8/2024 at 7:02 AM, TheCakeIsAlive said:

Ohh, I love this. ❤️ 

I love the headcannons that Crowley came up with stuck sneezes & that blessings make him sneeze. Honestly, if they're not cannon, they should be.   

I love how /ruffled/ Aziraphale is by particular things. Like the absence of a table & cutlery, Crowley not liking cocoa. Such a prissy darling. ❤️ 

And that build-up was delicious. 

Am I correct in spying some kinky!Aziraphale in there? 

Haha I definitely can’t take credit for coming up with those particular headcanons, but you bet I jumped on those boats the moment I saw them! Tbh Crowley inventing stuck sneezes absolutely sounds like something he’d do, especially if it has a way of coming back around and inconveniencing him later 😂

And thank you! I actually didn’t necessarily intend it to turn that way (I have another in the works that leans more towards that tho), but I can see it haha. 
 

On 6/25/2024 at 1:51 AM, Mnn said:

Hhhhhhh how can something like this be so WHOLESOME!!! They are just the CUTEST!!!

Thank you! Crowley and Aziraphale have rapidly become one of my favorite ships, mostly because they act so much like a married couple, constantly. 
 

On 6/25/2024 at 3:33 AM, angora48 said:

I love everything about this! The description of the "undone" Crowley was perfect. I giggled at Aziraphale getting so carried away with the food that he winds up leaving Crowley (to try) to nap for an hour while he conjures up tea, cake, soup, and fruit, and I loved how crestfallen he was when Crowley wasn't hungry. Aziraphale blessing Crowley to help him with the stuck sneeze was inspired!

Beautiful work, you captured both of them so well!

Omg, thank you so much, seriously!!! I love your work too so like, the amount of dopamine I’m getting from this is probably going to fuel me for a week if not longer 😂😂😂

I wasn’t really sure where this was going when I started writing, so to get compliments like this makes me super happy haha. 

[ellwren]

Perfect

 

[Cambria]

Beautiful 🤩