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Crowley knocked on the bookshop door. He peered through the window and saw the lights were off. Checking the time, he frowned. According to a small card detailing the erratic hours, his angel should’ve been in. Something didn’t feel right. “Aziraphale?” He yelled through the thick wood. “It’s me!” After a few minutes of waiting on the stoop, feeling like an idiot, Crowley tried the handle. It was unlocked. He narrowed his eyes as he slipped into the dimly lit space, his muscles coiled to fight.
“Crowley?” A gravelly voice asked from the backroom.
The demon sprinted past the shelves, practically leaping over a pile of books before crossing the threshold. Aziraphale was curled up on a couch, wrapped tightly in a down comforter. “Angel!” His nose wrinkled, “ugh, what’s that awful smell? ‘S worse than hell in here.” Upon closer inspection, the angel looked dangerously pale, verging on green.
“I apologize. It’s probably the wastebasket. I felt particularly ill – almost like guilt. But then my throat got hot and the next thing I knew, I was on my knees, mouth open, and the foul substance was just pouring out. Involuntarily!” His mouth watered dangerously and he thought it might happen again. Swallowing hard, he tried to finish his explanation quickly, “This was the closest receptacle. I was going to miracle it away, but then I worried I should keep it around in case it could be helpful?” All the talking was making him dizzy.
Crowley vanished the vomit, bathing the room with a light hint of mint instead. Sitting beside his angel, he put a gentle hand on his back. “Oh, Angel. You’re sick.”
“Pardon?”
“No, not in the gross way. You’re ill.”
Panic filled his eyes, “am I going to discorporate?” Angels didn’t get sick – or so he thought. Their ethereal power was supposed to eradicate illness from others as well as themselves. But most angels didn’t spend the majority of their time exhausting themselves meticulously caring for bookshops nor worrying about beloved demons. Sure, he’d seen humans fall ill and would often send a little miracle their way to aid recovery. But he, personally, had never been sick.
Crowley had to swallow a laugh. “Nah. You’re going to wish you could. But no; you’ll just feel like utter shit for days.”
“Language, dear.”
He scoffed. “Really? 6,000 years and you’ve never been sick?” He didn’t believe it. Granted, Crowley had never fallen ill, himself. He figured all the hellfire in him simply burned any sickness away. Though, he had slept for a century, and signs of impending illness may have contributed to his decision to do so – Not that he’d tell his angel.
“No.” Hazily, Aziraphale recalled Warlock catching a virus. He’d been outside, probably around 5 years-old, running around in the garden when he’d suddenly leaned against a tree and emptied the contents of his stomach on its roots. Nanny Ashtoreth hastened over to him, scooped him in her arms, and hurried inside. Aziraphale didn’t see either of them for two weeks. When young Warlock eventually emerged, he looked particularly frail and said very little. “Quite honestly, I’d forgotten how easily humans were afflicted. It wasn’t very long ago you were tending to Warlock, was it?”
Crowley shrugged. Clearly, it had been long enough that he didn’t recognize the stench of bile when he walked in. But he remembered it vividly now: all of sleepless nights, sitting beside Warlock’s bed, comforting him as he puked, and the worst part, emptying a sick bucket and washing his covers without miracles. Crowley resisted the urge to grimace.
“You should go. I’d rather you not catch it.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. You left the front door unlocked. Do you know what sort of absolute filth could have wandered in?” Crowley smirked, knowing that would get under Aziraphale’s skin.
“Filthier than you?” He teased.
The demon snorted. “Far worse; better this demon than another.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Aziraphale replied with a thankful smile. Truth be told, he was terrified: throwing-up was scary and being nauseous had him on edge. He found it absurd that he, an angel, was so utterly frightened by such a human experience that he’d temporarily forgotten what illness was. His cheeks burned with the mental admission; it wouldn’t do for an angel to be this useless in any situation. But he trusted that Crowley would keep him safe – while snarkily reminding him he wasn’t going to discorporate, of course.
The demon stood. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” He extended a hand to Aziraphale, who took it gratefully. Once the angel was on his feet, Crowley put his arm around him for support. Aziraphale’s movements gave away just how weak he was. It seemed as though he could be taken down as easily as a feather in the wind. Crowley kept a tight hold on him as they began their ascent to the angel’s flat upstairs.
Aziraphale tried hard to keep his bearings on the stairs. Swaying side-to-side as he climbed each step, he knew he wouldn’t be able to remain upright for long. He swayed hard, this time losing his balance and falling back into Crowley. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
The demon was ready and smoothly caught the angel. “Don’t worry about it.” Crowley helped him the rest of the way upstairs before easing him onto the bed.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said breathlessly. He lay back against the pillows, allowing his eyes to slip shut.
“Are you really going to sleep wearin’ all those layers?” Crowley asked, gesturing to his typical 3-piece ensemble.
He was exhausted, the last thing the angel wanted to do was change. A minor miracle could fix it, Aziraphale thought. Shakily, he lifted his hand.
“No, none of that,” he snapped, grabbing his wrist. “We don’t need you to be inconveniently discorporated.” He let go of his angel’s arm. “Now, what did you have in mind?”
Typically, the angel slept naked. He found it much more comfortable and freeing to slumber in a natural state. A light blush rose in Aziraphale’s cheeks as he sat up. He couldn’t possibly do so with his demon here.
“Come on,” Crowley said, a slight hint of frustration, “We’ve known each other 6,000 years, Angel.” Dropping the exasperation tone, he continued, “so, what do you wear to sleep?”
He mumbled something imperceptible.
“Didn’t quite catch that.”
The redness in Aziraphale’s cheeks deepened. He repeated himself barely above a whisper, “Just what I have on under this.”
Crowley’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop them. He faced away to give the angel privacy before snapping his fingers.
Cool air rushed against his chest as all but his underpants vanished. “Oh!”
His heart pounded with Aziraphale’s exclamation. Perhaps, his assumption was wrong. “Erm, did you want more than that?”
“No, no, this is perfect! Thank you.” He scrambled beneath the comforter, sighing as his head again touched the pillow. Aziraphale deeply appreciated the demon’s thoughtfulness regarding his modesty. Living through a plethora of times and ever-changing societal views on appropriate degrees of nakedness, the angel tended to opt toward a conservative approach to clothing. “You may turn around, dear.”
Crowley smiled at the sight of Aziraphale all snuggly in bed. He pulled the comforter up to the angel’s chin, tucking him in tightly. The demon settled into a chair beside the bed, pleased to hear Aziraphale already snoring.
Minutes ticked past, morphing into hours. Crowley watched Aziraphale sleep, occasionally dozing here and there. He toyed with the idea of getting a book from downstairs, but worried his angel would, somehow, need him in his absence.
Aziraphale woke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. The room was spinning, as was his stomach. He struggled to his feet; being vertical doubled the speed of the room. He pitched violently forward and quickly met the floor.
Crowley heard a dull thud and pulled himself out of the chair. “Dammit! Angel, tell me when you need--”
A fountain of vomit sprayed across the hardwood, splattering up the wall and curtains. On his hands and knees, Aziraphale groaned, tears streaming down his face. It hurt. He was coughing, dry heaving on his bedroom floor. A hand lightly rubbed his back. He leaned into the demon who’d knelt beside him.
“It’s okay,” he soothed as his angel brought up another mouthful of bile. Crowley forced away his revulsion as it splashed up on his knees. Aziraphale needed him to be strong, and, fuck, he would be. Swallowing another gag, he considered the stench of stomach acid might actually be worse than hell. His angel shuddered against his side. Softly, he murmured, “’s all right, Angel, you’re okay.”
Feeling that was the end, Aziraphale attempted to miracle the sick away.
“Nuh-uh,” Crowley said, gently pushing his hand down. “We’ve been over this. No miracles. You need rest.” He snapped his fingers and the mess vanished. Gingerly, he pulled the angel down so he was laying atop him.
He snuggled against Crowley’s chest, burying his tear-streaked face in the thin, soft t-shirt. The cool, hard floor beneath his legs felt nice against his feverishly hot skin and breathing in the demon’s scent distracted him from the sour taste in his mouth.
Crowley felt Aziraphale’s tears through his shirt. Holding the angel protectively in his arms, he hummed a lullaby. His charge started to relax, leaning into the demon a little harder. Crowley gently rocked him until his breathing evened out and became soft snores. Looking down at his sleeping angel, the demon smiled. He carefully miracled him back into bed and tucked him in before taking up residence in the bedside chair. Crowley watched Aziraphale as he snoozed, occasionally smiling when the angel made a little delighted noise in his sleep – Crowley figured the dream must have something to do with crepes. The demon, neck deep in fond memories of his principality, was surprised to find himself looking at a sunrise. He stood to close the shades at the precise moment Aziraphale sat up.
“Crowley, I think I’m going to –”
He thrust the wastebasket in front of the angel just in time. Crowley looked away and rubbed his back as Aziraphale emptied the little contents of his stomach into the can.
The angel stifled a cry as he tasted his salty tears mixing with sour bile. Mouthful after mouthful – it was cruel, he thought. Why couldn’t his body just bring it all up at once? Another dry heave and he was finally finished. Aziraphale leaned against the headboard, breathing hard. With a small nod, he pushed the bucket toward Crowley. His throat was raw, his stomach hurt, and his groin was wet. Oh dear. A new wave of tears streamed down his burning cheeks. He hadn’t had an accident in ages – at least not sober. Aziraphale hadn’t even realized it was happening. One minute he was about to be sick, the next he was handing the full bucket back to the demon and his legs were soaked. The urine was already starting to cool around him.
“Hey, shh,” Crowley murmured, setting the cleaned wastebasket back down and offering him a wet washcloth for his face. He could have miracled it away, but some things just felt better when done yourself.
Aziraphale took the rag and wiped his face. “Crowley,” he began as his cheeks flushed a deeper red. “I apologize, my dear; I-I didn’t mean to.”
“You’re sick, happens,” he dismissed, forcing himself to not roll his eyes. Leave it to the angel to feel bad about puking in a perfectly reasonable receptacle.
“Actually, I, um…” He shifted uncomfortably, considering just vanishing the mess himself. But Aziraphale knew the demon had a point – he shouldn’t be using his strength for miracles. Crowley was watching him patiently, waiting with his head cocked and a concerned expression. Better get on with it, then, he thought. “I had a bit of an accident.”
Crowley followed the angel’s glance down to the comforter. Cautiously, he folded it back. Sure enough, there was a yellow pool around the angel’s drenched crotch and legs. “Sometimes that happens, too” he said softly and miracled it away.
“Thank you.” It was a relief to be dry again. Aziraphale found himself far too weak to be horribly embarrassed; but he was still pouting.
Crowley crawled in bed beside him and pulled the angel onto his chest. He wanted to say something to comfort him, but settled on rubbing Aziraphale’s back. It seemed to be enough as the angel sighed and nuzzled against him.
“Really, Crowley, thank you for taking care of me.”
He figured the loving praise should make him uncomfortable, being a demon and all. But, instead, he felt warmed by the kind words and assured by the weight atop him. Crowley hummed agreeably, giving the angel an affectionate squeeze. Under any other circumstances, he wouldn’t have allowed himself such an expression, but Aziraphale needed it and, hell, maybe Crowley did, too.
A while later, Crowley figured it would be a good idea to get Aziraphale to eat. His corporation had likely become accustomed to it and maybe sustenance would help him heal faster. Once his angel was again fast asleep, Crowley gently disentangled himself from the mess of blankets and body parts. He padded down to the kitchen and riffled through the cabinets. Finding soup, tea, and some crackers, he set about learning how to work the stove. Never eating much himself, he’d never used one of the things. Finally, after a steady stream of curses, he got it to light. Cooking soup wasn’t too difficult, and he hoped he got the tea right – knowing how particular his angel was about it. Crowley brought the arrangement of soup, tea, and crackers upstairs on a tray. He cleared his throat as he stepped into the bedroom.
Aziraphale sat up, a smile crossing his face as he saw Crowley in the doorframe. “Dear, did you cook for me?”
Setting the tray in front of the angel, he grumbled “stove’s a bitch.”
“Mmhmm,” he mused. Aziraphale half expected the smell of soup to make him feel sick, but was pleasantly surprised to find he had an appetite. Bringing a spoonful to his lips, he let the salty broth melt on his tongue before hungrily diving in.
“Maybe take it slow, Angel,” he cautioned, remembering just how quickly he saw Warlock’s first meal a second time.
Aziraphale nodded, he knew the demon was right; but, not knowing how long he had before his appetite vanished again, he wanted to get the most out of the meal. Resolving to take a small break, he sipped his tea. “Great job, truly, well done! My compliments to the chef.”
“It’s not that great,” Crowley retorted, undermined by the small smile on his lips. He toyed with a loose thread while the angel finished with his meal. Crowley wanted to make Aziraphale feel as good as possible. Truth be told, he was enjoying caring for the angel – even the cooking. After clearing the dishes with a snap of his fingers, he scrambled into bed. Immediately, his angel settled on his chest.
Aziraphale closed his eyes, listening to Crowley’s steady heartbeat and slow breaths. He started to drift to sleep, safely nestled against his demon.
Crowley looked at the angel in his arms. Dammit, he would do anything for that disgustingly kind bastard. He pulled the covers around them and quickly fell into a deep slumber of his own.
Sometime later, Aziraphale woke, bile halfway up half-way up his throat. He tried to pull away from his demon, but it was too late.
Crowley’s eyes shot open as the stench of vomit reached his nose. He looked down just in time to see a fountain of watery, brownish stomach acid splatter across his shirt. A sour taste flooded his mouth, but he forced his throat to swallow. Worriedly, he put a hand on Aziraphale’s back.
“I’m…so…sorry, Crowley,” he panted between dry-heaves. His stomach was in aching knots, his throat and nostrils burning as he inhaled. “Oh!” His exclamation was swallowed by a stream of blood.
The demon recoiled in alarm and disgust before remembering himself. Aziraphale needed him. Crowley held him close, murmuring assurances that he was all right as the angel retched on his chest and the bed. Once he’d coughed up what seemed to be the last of it, the demon miracled it away.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said weakly. He felt dizzy, his head was cloudy, as though thinking through molasses.
“You all right?”
He was trying to process the demon’s words, but they kept swirling off into a mist.
“Angel?” He pressed.
“Hm? Yes, very sorry! Everything’s tickety-boo.” Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to worry Crowley, but he was getting quite anxious, himself.
The phrase sent a chill through his core. “C’mon,” he said, gently tugging him out of bed. Crowley wasn’t completely sure how much blood humans, er, corporations, could lose before it was dire; but he knew he didn’t want to find out in the flat over the bookshop.
“Where are we going?” Aziraphale allowed Crowley to button his shirt for him, assuring himself that he was more than capable and only permit the demon to do so as a courtesy.
He tried to keep his voice even, not wanting to alarm his angel. “I know a guy.” Crowley urged Aziraphale toward the steps and put his arm around him for their descent. He noticed the angel seemed considerably weaker, as he was swaying far more and his fingers were digging painfully into Crowley’s shoulder. The demon held him tighter, guiding him through the front door and into the Bentley. Crowley whipped out of his parking space, the speedometer quickly climbing to 89.
Aziraphale stayed quiet. He knew Crowley was hiding how scared his was for his benefit. His heart pounded furiously as he watched buildings flash past. The question rattling around in his foggy brain found its way to his lips. “Crowley,” he whispered, “am I going to discorporate?”
This time, the question sliced through his chest. “Not if I can help it,” Crowley muttered, taking a sharp right faster than he should.
The motion churned the angel’s stomach and he promptly vomited. Bloody bile splashed across the passenger door and dashboard before dripping down to the floor. He swallowed what he could, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. “I’m so sorry about the car. I—”
“Shut up, I don’t care about the Bentley right now. I care about you,” he snarled. “Hold on.” Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Aziraphale dab his mouth on his own sleeve. Ohshitohshitohshit. He pleaded, God, Satan, The Universe -- whoever was listening – that his guy, Andy, would be able to help his angel. Pushing his car faster, he flew around another turn.
Aziraphale’s stomach flipped again. He didn’t think he was going to make it much longer. “Pull over, please.”
Crowley hated what he was about to say only slightly less than he hated the thought of stopping. “Just do it on the floor. You already have once.”
The sight of his last incident made him queasier. “Crowley,” he begged, helplessly. Aziraphale wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the thought of vomiting again – anywhere – but he really didn’t want to further sully the car.
“Dammit, Angel, I’m not stopping. If puking in the Bentley means you live, then by all means,” he gestured to the floor at his angel’s feet.
Aziraphale decidedly clamped his jaw shut. He hoped there was something to the concept of ‘mind over matter’. His stomach gurgled menacingly.
They arrived at the gate of an expensive-looking mansion. Crowley honked three times and they were granted access. He parked by an elaborate fountain featuring an angel triumphing over a demon. Rolling his eyes, he jogged over to the passenger side and opened Aziraphale’s door. The angel clambered out of the vehicle and immediately emptied his stomach on the driveway. Crowley rubbed his back as he nodded to the well-dressed man approaching them.
“Mr. A. J. Crowley, I take it?”
He nodded again, holding Aziraphale upright as the angel retched beside the fountain.
“When he’s finished, follow me inside; Dr. Andrews is ready for you.” The Doorman turned on his heel and returned to his post.
Looking at the most recent mouthful Aziraphale brought up, Crowley frowned. A combination of dried and fresh blood dripped down the cement. “Are you all right?” He asked softly.
The angel’s throat was raw. “Tickety-boo, dear.” He leaned against the demon, weak and exhausted. Sweat trickled down his temples as Crowley guided him toward the front door. He attempted to smile at the Doorman, but it ended up being more of a grimace.
Crowley suppressed a smirk – of course, even in peril, his angel would manage to attempt to be polite. He kept a firm hold on Aziraphale as they were led to Andy’s office.
A man in a lab coat nodded to Crowley. “Dr. Stephan Andrews,” he said, offering the angel his hand.
Aziraphale took it and replied, “A. Z. Fell.” He was relieved when Crowley nodded approvingly beside him.
He gestured for him to take the seat on the other side of his desk. “Well, Mr. Fell, what seems to be the problem?”
Crowley leaned against the wall, guarding his angel as best he could. He crossed his arms more tightly across his chest, trying to disguise just how terrified he was.
The angel shifted uncomfortably in the chair. It disconcerted him to express his ailments to a perfect stranger. But he trusted Crowley, and his demon seemed to think this gentleman could help. “I can’t seem to stop vomiting.”
“Tell him about the blood, angel,” Crowley prompted from his post.
“Yes, the blood. Well, I…” He stumbled over his words, “it seems that all this retching has, quite possibly, damaged my stomach or, perhaps, my esophagus, as I keep regurgitating blood. Often, it’s bright red, but usually, erm, usually there are some darker bits as well.” Aziraphale fell silent, his folded hands shook quite badly in his lap.
Dr. Andrews nodded, listening intently to Anthony’s friend. “I see. Would it be all right if I did a few tests?”
Crowley snarled, “No tests.” He didn’t need word getting back upstairs or downstairs that an angel had gone for medical testing. Particularly not his angel.
The doctor recoiled. “A physical then?” He asked tentatively.
Aziraphale paled and cast an anxious look at Crowley. His nerves took quite a toll on his poor stomach. He felt the heat crawling up his throat. Oh no – oh dear. Aziraphale lurched forward, bending in half as sour liquid filled his mouth. He tried in vain to force the sick back down, but it was too late. Bloody bile spewed from his lips and painted the white tile a foul reddish brown.
Crowley rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder as the angel emptied his stomach again. He felt bad knowing that Aziraphale would be embarrassed to have puked on Andy’s floor. But he couldn’t risk miracling a bucket. Crowley only trusted Dr. Andrews about as far as he could throw him, which was more than he could say for most humans. However, experience taught him that this particular doctor would keep his trap shut should anything supernatural prove to be the cause of his angel’s illness.
“Oh dear,” he panted, his eyes still closed. “Please, allow me to apologize.” Aziraphale grimaced as he swallowed the thick, acidic film on his tongue.
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Fell.” He studied the mess for a moment. “Actually, this helps considerably with my diagnosis.”
Aziraphale’s face burned crimson. If not for Crowley’s hand on his shoulder, he felt he could have discorporated from sheer mortification.
“So?” The demon prompted sharply, anxious for answers.
“Mr. Fell, I believe you’re suffering from ulcers.”
The angel leaned back into the demon’s hand, uncertain as to what Dr. Andrews meant. Crowley noted Aziraphale’s distress. “And what, pray tell, does that entail?” He didn’t intend to be quite so snippy – but his angel was ill and his patience had run dangerously thin.
“Well, he’ll just need to take this,” Andy began, hastily scribbling a prescription, “a few times daily. Essentially what the drug will do is coat his stomach to give the lining a chance to heal. Mr. Fell, you should avoid sugary, spicy, sour, as well as acidic foods for the next couple weeks.” He handed Crowley the script, as the demon slipped him a hefty sum.
“That should cover everything including your silence on the matter,” he hissed in his ear.
“Absolutely, Mr. Crowley, sir. Mr. Fell, I hope you start feeling better soon.” Dr. Andrews shook their hands before the doorman showed the two out.
Crowley opened the passenger door to find the Bentley spotlessly clean. He gave the angel a dark look. “Aziraphale, what did I say about miracles?”
He sagged in the seat, his hand shaking as he reached for his seatbelt. “My dear, I assure you, I didn’t perform any.” Aziraphale was too weak to argue further.
“All right, angel,” he replied softly. Crowley knew it was more than possible that his Bentley possessed enough demonic energy to clean itself. The vehicle roared to life as he slid into the driver’s seat. ‘I Love My Car’ played quietly, filling the sudden silence. His mind too cluttered for music, he turned the radio off. “Sorry,” he mumbled and lightly patted the dash. To say Crowley was worried would be putting it lightly. In truth, the demon was outright panicking beneath his thin, exterior layer of suave aloofness. His heart sickeningly thudded against his ribcage with a loud, wet, drumming thunk. He urged The Bentley faster, nearing the pharmacy. Thanks to a few demonic miracles, the pharmacist had it all ready to go as soon as they pulled up. He shrugged off Aziraphale’s weak inquiries regarding the ‘convenience’ of how quickly his medicine was ready. Hell wouldn’t be checking up on him for a while, not that he really cared what Beelzebub thought of ‘frivolous miracles.’ Crowley had always found it rather idiotic that his ex-lot even kept track – they were demons for Someone’s sake.
He cast a glance at the angel as he parked in front of the bookshop. Aziraphale was leaning against the window, drool ran from the corner of his mouth and dripped on his jacket. Crowley grimaced, knowing how much his prim principality would dislike looking so undignified. “Come on, Angel,” he said softly, attempting to rouse him. Aziraphale grunted in his sleep, his dark-circled eyes still peacefully closed. The demon sighed, reclined his seat, and resigned himself to waiting until his angel woke on his own.
Eventually, Crowley managed to get Aziraphale settled on the old bookshop couch. He’d coaxed him to take his medicine after numerous assurances the drugs wouldn’t discorporate him. Thankfully, in a matter of hours, Aziraphale was starting to feel far better. He’d even managed to keep down a bowl of soup and quite a few cups of tea. “I think this medicine is working, my dear.”
Dizzying relief coursed through Crowley. He hadn’t realized just how worried he’d been. The demon fought to keep his voice even as he replied “That’s great, Angel.” The thought of losing Aziraphale sent a sharp, chilling pang through his stomach, freezing him to his core. He wasn’t sure what he would do without his angel and he certainly never wanted to find out.
Aziraphale lay on the couch, closely watching his demon pace the other side of the room. He missed the security he’d felt in Crowley’s arms; the comfort of hearing his heart beat loudly in his ear as he rested his head on the demon’s chest. He wanted to bask in safety of his scent, indulge in the luxurious calm that washed over him when Crowley’s thumb lightly rubbed his shoulder. “Would you join me?” Please?”
He detected a note of desperation in his angel’s voice and crossed the room in three sauntering strides. “’Course, Angel,” Crowley replied, diligently plopping down beside him. His lips slightly upturned as he felt Aziraphale’s weight relax against him. He put his arm around the angel, his fingertips resting on his bare shoulder.
“Oh, my dear boy, your skin is practically ice!” He exclaimed.
“Sorry.” Crowley started to pull away.
“Don’t be daft,” Aziraphale said, love dripping from his tone as he firmly covered the demon’s hand with his own. He wrapped the blanket around both of them and rested his head on Crowley’s chest. The angel timed his breaths to the strong heartbeat, slowly drifting to sleep.
They stayed like that, for Somebody knows how long. It could have been centuries. But that was just fine with Crowley. He was more than content to watch over the cherub blissfully snoring in his lap – even for eternity. Crowley knew he’d never grow bored of those blonde, curly locks, nor the soft, happy sounds Aziraphale made when he dreamed. This was his paradise.