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Crowley woke up feeling utterly and entirely awful.
Winter had fallen over his and Aziraphale’s cozy little cottage home in the South Downs, which meant that the serpentine demon, oversensitive to the lowering temperature, had, for the most part, remained holed up inside, only venturing out into the cold to care for his miraculously-flourishing garden despite Aziraphale’s scolding to save his strength.
But as much as Crowley did his best to avoid it, the cold always ended up weakening him, and left him feeling ill even to the human standard of it — to the point that, yes, he felt utterly and entirely awful.
He rolled over in their bed with a drawn-out groan, rubbing at his face with a shaky hand and cursing under his breath. His face was clammy and hot, but he felt cold, his body wracked with shivers and tickling with gooseflesh.
His eyes were dry and his lips were chapped, his head throbbing with the beginnings of a headache. He forced himself to crack open one eye to look at the analog clock poised on the wall; squinting, he thought that it read that it was just after ten o’clock, but the curtains were drawn, mercifully dimming the light.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s murmur came from beside him, where the angel was propped up against a bunch of pillows, reading a book with a cup of tea nursing in one hand.
Crowley moaned unintelligibly, burying his face against the angel’s thigh with a string of incoherent grumblings, and Aziraphale chuckled. But upon feeling the heat radiating from the freezing cold demon, and the unusual raspiness of his lovely noises, he let out a concerned noise, placing down his tea and book, stroking a hand through Crowley’s hair.
“Good morning, starlight,” he murmured. “Not feeling well, hm?”
“Uh-huh,” Crowley rasped out, and he shivered as another chill ran through his body, sniffling loudly. His eyes watered, a small relief from how dry they were, and he licked his lips, his throat itching. “S’cold,” he whined, his teeth chattering as he spoke, and Aziraphale sighed sadly, his hand moving to brush over Crowley’s forehead.
“You’re very warm,” he whispered, cupping Crowley’s cheek in his palm. Aziraphale leaned down to press a kiss to the bridge of the demon’s nose, and Crowley leaned into his touch with a wavering sigh. “Is it from the weather, darling?”
“Nnngh,” Crowley groaned, but nodded blearily, his eyes sliding shut once more, his entire body trembling as he shivered.
The cottage was warm; he knew it was, they had a fireplace (miracled up, as to eliminate the possibility of a fire) that made the whole inside feel perfectly toasty, as Aziraphale always put it. But right now, it felt like he had been cast into blessed Antarctica. “Yuh. S’stupid,” he whimpered.
“Shh, hush, lovely,” Aziraphale soothed. He kissed him again, over the lids of his eyes, stroking his hand back through Crowley’s hair, which spilled down to his shoulders, now.
“Let me care for you, yes? Make you as comfortable as you can be? Would that be alright, my dearest?”
Crowley let out a scratchy, painful exhale and nodded, blinking slowly as he strained to look up at his angel. “Please,” he rasped, and Aziraphale smiled tenderly down at him, worry shining in his eyes. He pressed another kiss to Crowley’s forehead before slipping out of their bedroom.
Crowley listened with held breath to the angel’s padding footsteps, forcing himself to concentrate on that and not at how freezing cold he was, how his teeth were chattering and his eyes were burning. He listened, and was mercifully calmed, exhaling a long breath as he listened to Aziraphale bustling around their small kitchen.
Aziraphale did not take long to return, bearing a cold pack and a blanket in hand. He began fussing over the exhausted demon, pressing the cold pack to his forehead and tucking him into the blanket, which was one of Crowley’s favorites, patterned with stars and constellations and planets. A cup of hot cocoa was pressed to his lips, followed by a small cup of water, and Crowley drank thirstily, relaxing with a small sigh, his eyes slipping shut once more.
“S’nice,” he mumbled. He reached out blindly for Aziraphale, but did not find him; he cracked one eye open, and frowned to see the room devoid of his angel. Moments later, Aziraphale bustled back in, holding many more blankets and another spare cold pack, despite the fact that the one on Crowley’s head would never lose its coldness.
The angel fussed about at the edge of the bed, making sure that Crowley’s socked feet were tucked in and warm. Crowley recognized the slightly panicked, fluttery edge to Aziraphale’s actions, and he tapped his knuckles weakly against the nightstand. Aziraphale raised his head, and his eyes were shimmering with faint tears.
“Angel,” Crowley whispered; “oh, angel. Wha’ss goin’ on?” Talk to me, he implored silently. We’ve worked on this; you know you can. Just talk to me, angel.
“Just — I’m just — making myself useful,” Aziraphale explained, rather helplessly. He wrung his hands together tightly, picking at his palms agitatedly, tugging at the sleeves of his soft cardigan. “To — to help you.”
“You — angel — Aziraphale, c’mere.” Crowley held out a hand, eyes imploring, heart aching.
“Oh — oh, dear,” Aziraphale squeaked out, turning his face away and moving a step towards the door. “I — I apologize, I’m making your illness about myself.” Selfish, he was clearly thinking, but did not say.
“I — I shall fetch you some more cocoa, yes?”
“No,” Crowley rasped out, shaking his head. Of course being taken care of felt wonderful, especially after so long of being deprived of it; but Aziraphale brought more comfort than any blankets or hot drinks did. “Aziraphale — angel,” he whispered, “I don’t need all of these things. They’re nice, of course —,” He threaded the star-patterned blanket between his fingers, humming quietly. “And thank you for taking care of me. But, angel . . .”
Aziraphale turned his head towards the demon, and his eyes were filled with tears.
“I don’t need them,” Crowley said softly, so very softly, only ever for his angel — “I just need you.”
“Oh, you — you sappy old serpent.” Aziraphale’s voice cracked, and he wiped at his face with embarrassment, with a wavering little smile.
Crowley shook his head fondly and felt a smile of his own melt at his face, even as another shiver ran through his lean frame, making his teeth chatter. He stretched his hands out further, making a gimme gimme motion that made Aziraphale’s smile grow.
“C’mere,” he repeated gently, even as his voice croaked and rasped. “Please, angel. I need you.”
(It had taken him a long time for them to be able to say that, and now they would never stop.)
Aziraphale nodded, silent and meek, likely having run out of words he was able to say. He tugged at his cardigan nervously and slid off his slippers before climbing into bed beside Crowley, wrapping him up in his arms and pulling the covers over both of them, enveloping him in warmth.
He gently kissed the gooseflesh away from Crowley’s pale, exposed neck, pressing his lips to the back of his head and resting his chin along his shoulders, kissing his cheek. The demon took one of the angel’s hands in his own trembling fingers, and brought it up to his lips, kissing weakly over his knuckles and bringing Aziraphale’s palm up to cup his cheek once more as his eyes slid closed.
“You help me just by being here,” Crowley murmured, snuggling back into Aziraphale’s warmth and breathing him in. “You don’t gotta make yourself useful, or whatever other bloody things you’re thinking, angel. You are the only thing I need. Alright?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed out, his breath trembling and hitching against Crowley’s cheek. “Yes, my darling. Thank you.” He fell silent for a few more moments, seemingly pulling himself together, and then: “I love you so very, very much, do you know that?”
“Yeah, yeah. And I love you — you old sap,” Crowley grumbled, a smile twitching at his lips even as he sniffled sickly and pressed into Aziraphale’s warm hold, exhaustion overtaking him; Aziraphale held him tighter as he relaxed fully against him, and he sighed with contentment.
He thought that the only winters where he had ever been happy or content, were the ones he had shared here, with Aziraphale. “Thanks f’takin’ care of me,” he mumbled tiredly, drowsiness chasing at the edges of his vision.
“Always, my starlight,” Aziraphale whispered tenderly, and Crowley thought that the angel might have begun to cry; but happy tears, because he was so very, very happy to finally have someone who loved him for him, not for what he could give. “Always.”
He kissed the top of Crowley’s head, brushing a hand through his hair. “Sleep well, my darling, dearest Crowley,” he murmured, “and dream of whatever you love best.”
And so Crowley slept, and he dreamt of nothing but his angel, and the warmth and comfort of his arms.