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The Ritz is behaving very oddly. If Crowley can pull the energy together, he's going to speak to some of the staff about it.
Everything's swaying for a start, and he's sure the curtains didn't used to be made of jolting lines of colours. Plus there's something making a whining noise in the background, and it's going to ruin their date.
Is it a date?
Probably should have clarified that before they'd got here.
See. Aziraphale's looking annoyed. Or worried. Or something. Whatever. He can't tell, but Aziraphale isn't having a good time and that's all that matters.
He needs to fix it.
'Sorry,' he manages. Oh, that's odd. Why isn't there enough air in here? Someone really needs to yell at the staff until they open a few windows.
'Crowley?'
''m sorry,' and there must have been something wrong with the food as well as the rest of the damned building, because his stomach's twisting now.
This was meant to be a celebration. And they're ruining it, it's all going wrong, why did he ever think this was going to be any different? Everything's ruined and it's not even his fault for once, he hasn't done anything to the colours and they're so sharp, so painful please don't let them be hurting Aziraphale this isn't right make it stop.
'Crowley.'
There's a hand wrapped over his. Warm and real, although it's blending away into haziness with everything else.
'Tell me what's wrong.'
'Ssssomething's wrong wi' the Ritz,' and that comes out slurred. He pushes a hand against his eyes; the colours starburst and dance even once he's forced his eyes closed.
'I think you're sick, Crowley.'
'No.'
Aziraphale places his knife and fork down; the metallic clatter hurts him. Why can't everyone be quiet?
'Darling, you're ill. Come on, we'll go home.'
'Celebrate. Meant to be celebrating.'
'We're not celebrating if you're sick, Crowley.'
''m not, there's sssomething wrong,' and there's pain now as well, but he can't tell where it's coming from. Just that there's a lot of it. Maybe Heaven or Hell want to finish the job? 'Need to protect-'
Is that what an arm around the shoulders is meant to feel like? He'd always thought it would feel restricting, constrictive but it's warm and his corporation leans against it without thought.
'Can I have our bill please?' Aziraphale's voice is shockingly close to his ear.
'Of course, Sir.'
Crowley forces himself to silence for what feels like an eternity. The Ritz really needs to teach the waiters to be quiet. How can they make so much noise with a card machine and oh...he glances at his hand, trying to pay but his limbs are trembling. He can't hold his hand still, let alone snap his fingers.
'Angel? Aziraphale? I think something's wrong with me.'
'I know, dearest. I think you've got a migraine. We'll go home now.'
He's not sure if it's anxiety or sickness writhing through him. 'Don't - don't want to go home. Can't protect...'
'I'm taking you to the shop, Crowley. Of course I'm not going to leave to protect yourself when you're like this.'
Why can't the angel understand? It's too much effort to get any more words out, and Aziraphale's not listening. He needs to protect the angel, and he can't even snap his fingers. Someone's making a groaning noise in the background. He hopes their head doesn't hurt like his does.
'Can you walk?'
He nods and the starbust turns to a supernova. The world fracturing, disappearing in flashes of colour and what if this was all wrong, they didn't save the world, it's ending here and now and...he grasps Aziraphale's hand with everything he can manage.
Walking is almost impossible. He's dizzy, his legs don't want to work. Aziraphale's having to hold him up. The streetlights, the noise of the cards, everything hurts and hurts and hurts and he half-turns to Aziraphale as though he can make it stop.
'I have you,' Aziraphale says. 'It will be all right, whatever's wrong, we can fix it. I'm not going to miracle us home while you're like that, it'll make you sick. That's it, we can just walk. I have you.'
'Can't ssss...' He can't get the rest of the words out.
'I know, darling.'
He stumbles alongside Aziraphale, every step agony. But Aziraphale never lets go of him, never stops talking and it's enough to keep him shambling forward. Because if Aziraphale wants him to keep walking, blind and in pain, he will. He stopped time for him earlier; he's walked through a church and through Heaven for Aziraphale, what difference does this make?
'That's it. You're doing so well.'
Things fracture after that; he loses touch of everything that isn't pain, or Aziraphale's hand.
A door creaking in welcome. A blanket that he can't see the colours of. The couch that knows the sharp edges and lines of his body and doesn't reject them. Retching and gasping; Aziraphale holding a bowl and then a glass of water for him, switching them out for what seems an eternity. Something cold and damp pushed over his face, washing away tears he hadn't been aware of.
And repeatedly, without end 'I've got you, Crowley. You'll be OK.'
Aziraphale doesn't leave him. Not for an instant.
**
Maybe it's time making fun of him for thinking that he can control it; it swoops in and out for the next few hours. Stretches of something that might be unconsciousness; longer stretches where he's sick again and the bookshop is barbed lines of colour around him and he can't think or breath through the pain, just clutch Aziraphale's hand and wait.
'I'm not going anywhere, Crowley.'
**
And then it's the soft light of morning, and although he feels like he did after the meetings where he'd really upset Hell, although his head aches and his stomach muscles are screaming at him, and he's too exhausted to do anything more than squirm more upright on his couch, he's able to focus again.
'Angel?'
Aziraphale's sitting alongside him; he swings around instantly at Crowley's soft greeting and he's met with a beaming smile.
'Back with me?'
'Think so.' Crowley risks moving his shoulders a little. Flexing his wrists. It's not unbearable. 'Sorry.'
'No. None of that. No apologising.'
'I ruined our meal. You had to -'
'Crowley. Listen to me. Everything I have ever done for you has been because I wanted to. Going right back to Eden. Do you think that would change because I can look after you freely and openly now? You saved the world yesterday. Even if you hadn't, even if you were just sick, I would have wanted to look after you. Our side, remember?'
It's too many words to take in; he settles for dragging a heavy hand up Aziraphale's side and wrapping their fingers together.
'We saved the world,' he repeats, because maybe that's the most important thing to focus on.
'We did. So the Ritz is still there and we can visit again whenever we like. When you're well. We can do anything we like.'
An arm wraps around his shoulders. Neither of them are much good at hugs, but neither of them try to change it.
'I love you,' he mutters to Aziraphale a while later, once he realises he's fighting a losing battle against sleep.
'I know, dearest. You told me at least a dozen times in the night. And I love you too, of course. I told you that as well but you had other things on your mind, I think.'
He'd expected rainbows or something. Maybe a picnic in the park, or at least a meal where they'd got to have dessert. Not like this, with the scent of Hell still clinging to Aziraphale and Crowley wrapped in a now ruined blanket. But maybe it has to work in the worst bits as well and the times like now when he doesn't know where this is going.
'You told me you weren't going away,' he says.
'I'm not.' Aziraphale moves a little, pulls Crowley against him. 'Not going anywhere. Stuck with me now.'
'Oww, don't make me laugh.'
Aziraphale kisses him instead, a quick press of lips against cheek. 'Still not going anywhere.'
'Good. Neither am I.'