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Crowley sighed with blissful relief as he sank deep into the bubbly, steaming hot water, allowing his eyes to slip shut and shivering with unsuppressed pleasure.
Above him, he felt a gentle kiss being pressed into his copper hair, and he hummed with lazy happiness, extending one slender hand up from the water of the tub and clumsily caressing Aziraphale's face, making the angel giggle quietly.
Crowley had had an absolutely awful headache ever since he had woken up that morning, the sort that had seemed to come with the business of having his human corporation and couldn't, unlike something like a hangover, be rid of by a miracle.
His head was pounding, his eyes dry and stinging as his very being seemed to pulse with flares of pain, his heart palpitating and his body tremoring with cramps of aching pain that had seeped down from the front of his throbbing skull all the way down to his scaly feet. It was awful, and he hated it, and he hated being so weak, so vulnerable, but . . .
Unlike in the past when he had been struck with such illnesses, he was not all on his own to suffer alone.
Ever since that morning when Aziraphale had, of course, noticed the tight furrow of Crowley's brow and the pinch of his eyes and the stuttering pulse of his throat, he had made it his sole purpose in the world to make Crowley as comfortable as possible until he was feeling all better, and then some.
He had made the demon soothing tea the moment Crowley had begrudgingly admitted to his condition, had pressed cold packs to his head and straws to his lips, had kissed his forehead and held his hand and shushed him gently when he had cried out in flares of pain — and now, he was running him a bubbly bath that smelt of lavender, and Crowley was sinking into it, thinking drowsily that Aziraphale truly was an angel.
He wouldn't mind a few headaches, Crowley reasoned to himself as he tipped his chin back to dip his hair in the water and the pulsing in his head subsided as Aziraphale's hands came to rub softly along his scalp, if it meant that he got the cherished privilege of being taken care of by his angel — not that Aziraphale wouldn't have done that every single day regardless, were Crowley to ask, something that he was allowed to do now, ever since they had finally moved through and past everything, had joined their own side for good, had moved into their cottage in the South Downs as themselves.
Their side; everlasting love, forever, till the end of time and then beyond.
Crowley had never been happier in his entire life than he was in this single moment, because despite the pain that had not fully subsided and likely would not for a while to come, he had his angel, and he was content to relax in the soapy, steaming water with Aziraphale's warm, broad hands massaging through his hair and his lips pressing kisses along the line of his brow, lost in the haze that he always seemed to sink into whenever he at long last allowed himself to be cared for in the ways he deserved.
"Thank you, Aziraphale," Crowley whispered as quietly as he possibly could, the words barely even an exhale of a thin breath past his trembling lips. His lashes fluttered, kissing his cheeks lightly, and the tears that prickled at the corners of his eyes momentarily flushed away the burning ache behind his eyelids.
Aziraphale paused for a moment, and then he hummed softly, scooting over a little in order to kiss the bridge of Crowley's nose, gentle and chaste and filled with love.
He stroked a hand over the demon's forehead, smoothing out the creases lining his brow, thumbing at the hollows of his eyes before moving his palm upward and massaging his hair back, gently rubbing at Crowley's temples with his thumb. The little serpent tattoo wriggled happily, and the corners of Crowley's mouth twitched upwards, his chest rising and falling with a deep inhale and exhale.
"Of course, my darling," came Aziraphale's ever-so-quiet response at last, and as he kissed along Crowley's scalp all the way back to his forehead and to his nose once more, Crowley swore that, for a sliver of a moment, the pain became nonexistent, replaced with sweet joy and aching love — and even when the pain returned in a dull hum, the latter two still remained, and Crowley thought he would cry again as the angel whispered out:
"Thank you; I am ever so proud of you for allowing me to care for you, Crowley, and oh, how I love you so."
Crowley did not have it in him to respond in the moment, but he moved one quivering hand up to squeeze at Aziraphale's wrist, feeling his thrumming pulse and allowing it to ground him; the replying squeeze from the angel told him that he understood, and the kiss to his brow ensured the love that wrapped around him like the warmest of blankets on the coldest of days — everlasting, eternal, forever.
"Love you," Crowley managed to croak out after several long, silent moments save for the light splashing of water against ceramic and pale skin, and Aziraphale huffed out a warm breath into his hair, his hands having moved down to squeeze at the demon's aching muscles and his nose having buried in the damp copper strands, keeping himself close.
"I know, my beloved. I know." Aziraphale breathed, and it ruffled Crowley's hair, seeming to seep into his very essence, healing in and of itself, if only for a moment.
"You've done awfully well, my love. Have a rest, now."
And so Crowley did, safe and happy and ever so loved in the warm, healing arms of his angel.