Chapter Text
Percy just wanted Aziraphale to himself.
He was not about to admit that to anyone, though —and especially not to the angel.
Something painful and ugly had carved its way into his chest two months ago, when his parents had sat him and Alice down and told them that Papa was pregnant again. It was an all-encompassing hurt, one that curdled in his belly and made him feel cast aside. Like he’d be eventually entirely lost in the shuffle of their growing family.
From the very moment she was told, Alice had remained absolutely over the moon, much to Percy’s resentment. He couldn’t understand how this could possibly be a good thing in any sort of circumstance. There’s an ugly sort of jealousy simmering just below the surface, an unbridled kind of wayward dejection that’s made him loathe the way that everyone else seems to be so damned happy.
So he keeps to himself; shuts himself away in his room the moment he’s free from school. He’s stopped doing his schoolwork at the kitchen table, choosing to take his meals in his room and simply not emerging until everyone else has retired for the evening.
They’d tired, in the beginning. But these days his Papa was either buried in preparations for the new baby or trying to navigate the cottage without tripping over Alice, who’d become practically glued to his side ever since his team won the semi-final.
And if it wasn’t Alice wasn’t stuck to his side, then his Dad was somewhere nearby, fussing over his Papa’s well- being.
So he’s relegated himself to the sidelines, shutting himself away and refusing any attempts at proper interaction before the actions could be considered even-half baked.
And the problem is his parents are letting him.
They’re giving him the space that — at any other point — he’s so desperately craved. Now, as he faces down the barrel of another sibling added to the mix, Percy’s never felt more forgotten.
He’s desperate for his Papa’s full attention down at his very core — but he’s carried on for far too long. It’s evident that at this point, it’s going to take nothing short of a miracle.
And so it does.
It takes a bit of concentration as he stares into the mirror above his chest of drawers that night, brow furrowed. He feels a tell-tale prickling at the base of his skull, a tingling that spreads in his fingers as he pulls it down from the ether, just like his parents had shown him.
When he goes to brush his teeth, he doesn’t feel any different.
But when Percy wakes up early on a Wednesday morning — an uncomfortable cold-sweat clinging to his forehead — he realizes that his efforts have actually worked.
Stubborn aches ripple through every part of his body, a pained groan sliping from his lips as he tries to stretch. He heeds his body’s protest and simply lies on his back as he realizies that his miracle hadn’t just worked well, but maybe a little too well.
He tries another minor miracle, hoping to tone down the illness coursing through him, but to his frustration, everything seems a bit out of reach. He repeats his attempts to a frustrating lack of change, his futile ministrations only leaving him feelinging more drained than before. Percy sighs, rolling onto his side to glance at the time on his phone; it’s not even half-past four.
The deep breath he pulls into his lungs ends in a sharp, barking cough. Dismayed, he throws his covers off and forces himself out of bed, ignoring his body's protests, all but begging him to stay put.
At the early hour, the cottage is still, a comfortable sort of silence only broken by the distant chirping of birds outside.
It’s the middle of winter, and Percy shivers at the biting chill of the hardwood against his bare feet. In his haze he trips over his forgotten video game controller, a startled grunt tearing past his lips as he stumbles haphazardly into his bedroom door. For a moment he freezes, panting harshly, worried his clumsiness will have woken Alice. And if it wasn’t Alice wasn’t stuck to his side, then his DadCrowley was somewhere nearby, fussing over his Papa’s and his well-being. The last thing he needs right now is her meddling.
Only when he’s sure the coast is clear does he clearly make his way out into the hallway, trailing the back of his knuckles across the wallpaper as some sort of makeshift guide.
A dull throb pulses at his temples as he squints through the darkness, searching for the doorknob to his parent’s bedroom. Usually, in times like these — whether it’s a bad dream or sudden illness — he can always find Papa somewhere in the house, no matter the hour. It used to be so much easier, finding the angel lost in a book or engaged in some quiet, nighttime activity. Now, it feels like a careful dance, sneaking into their room without disturbing both of them while they sleep.
His Dad is a heavy sleeper, while his Papa, on the other hand, was anything but. Over the past couple months, his Dad had repeatedly warned the both of them to tiptoe past the hallway after eleven o’clock, since Papa now struggled to fall back asleep once disturbed. Lately, it had become even more of an issue, what with the baby’s growing weight pressing down on his bladder, forcing him to get up and pee more frequently through the night.
Percy’s fingers curl around the brass doorknob, pushing it open carefully. The door creaks faintly in protest, but the room is dimly lit by the soft orange light filtering out from the nightlight in the en suite, just enough for him to make out the shape of his parents in their bed.
He can just make out his father’s cherubic face, angelic even in sleep, the lines of concern smoothed away as he rests. Behind him, his dad lies tucked against the angel’s back, his red hair mussed, face pressed gently against the curve of his Papa’s neck. One of Crowley’s hands is gripping a fistful of his husband’s pajama shirt at the chest, anchoring himself to the angel even in sleep.
Percy takes a cautious step closer, hoping the creak of the floorboards won’t betray him. Despite his best efforts, the soft groan of the old wood beneath his weight is enough to snap Papa out of his slumber.
Aziraphale’s eyes blink open, wide with that familiar mixture of concern and gentle surprise. His gaze focuses on Percy immediately, and instinctively, he shifts, moving slightly away from Crowley to make room for his son.
“Percy?” Aziraphale’s voice is thick with sleep, but there’s an edge of alarm creeping in. “Are you quite alright?” His voice cracks slightly, the way it always does when his heart is concerned.
Behind him, Crowley doesn’t stir.
Percy freezes, a palpable chill running through his body. His throat tightens painfully, making it impossible to speak.
To his horror, the only response he can give is a weak shake of his head. It only makes the dull ache in his temples worsen. He had planned to make this quick, to slip in, get a bit of comfort from his parents, and leave without disrupting anyone. But now, faltering at the sound of Papa’s voice filled with that quiet, fatherly worry, he can’t seem to pull himself together.
It was never supposed to go like this.
Papa sits up at the first fight of his distress, a flurry of soft, pale limbs. His hands are on Percy’s face before he can take another raspy breath. “Oh! My darling — you feel feverish.”
He hasn’t heard his Papa use that endearment for him in years. Percy bites back a cry, and fights the urge to collapse his tired, achy body into his father’s safe arms.
His father’s nimble fingers find his bedside lamp, a gentle click the only warning Percy has before the room is enveloped in a warm glow. Even the subtle brightness manages to pierce through his skull like an icepick, pulling a pitiful groan from the back of his throat as he moves to shield his eyes. His Dad startles awake from the other side of the bed, clearly still tangled in sleep.
“Angel? Did you dream there’s a spider in our bed again?” he grumbles, voice thick with drowsiness. But then his eyes snap open, and at the sight of Aziraphale’s hands on Percy’s face, his expression shifts instantly. “Cos — Percy?”
His Dad’s gaze darts to him, then back to his Papa, his expression falling. Without further hesitation, he stumbles out of bed, his legs becoming tangled in the beige sheets in his haste.
If Percy didn’t feel so dreadful, he might have found the sight of his Dad struggling to regain his balance while Papa sat, wide-eyed with concern, quite hysterical. As it was, Percy couldn’t help the corner of his lips twitching minutely despite himself.
Dad, however, recovers quickly, pulling himself upright with a speed that could only be described as comical, smoothing down his silk pajamas with an air of nonchalance.
“You alright, plum?” he asks with a raised brow, glancing at Percy’s flushed face, concern etched into his own features.
“Quite right.” Papa frowns, gesturing for Percy to come sit beside him. Percy does as he’s bidden, and the moment he settles, his Papa’s deft fingers work across his neck in search of swollen lymph nodes.
Percy’s eyes close of their own accord, his head involuntarily titling towards Papa’s cool hand. For a moment his cheek grazes the angel’s knuckles, his father trailing a soothing line before resting his open palm against his overheated cheeks
“What hurts exactly, love?” Dad asks, moving to trail the back of his forehead.
“Crowley, be a dear and fetch some water and paracetamol, would you?” Turning back to Percy, he tuts, smoothing a hand down the front of his damp sleepshirt. “Is it your head? Your throat? Your soul?” Papa offers him a teasing smile, but Percy can see the concern flickering behind it.
The pounding behind his eyes intensifies, and he wishes he could just collapse into the softness of the bed already. He longs for the comfort of the plush blankets — three layers of them, warm and soothing an overwhelming desire to curl up in the safe, familiar space between his parents makes a lump form in his throat.
It’s been years since he last had.
He shifts where he’s sat, grimacing at the dull ache that’s settled into his bones. “Dunno… my head’s the worst, but my whole body hurts. Stomach feels a bit wonky, too.”
Aziraphale sits up straighter at the last part. “Are you going to be sick?”
Percy swallows thickly. “No. I don’t think so.”
“I’ll have Dad fetch the bin from your bathroom, in any case,” Papa declares in his soft, reassuring tone. “Now, it’s far too early to be entirely up and about. Perhaps a little more rest before we venture downstairs might be in order,” he muses, his voice filled with gentle thoughtfulness as he presses the back of his hand to Percy’s feverish cheek. “You are more than welcome to stay with us if you’d prefer.”
This is the moment Percy’s been waiting for, and it hits him squarely in the ego. Just as he’s about to relish in the warm, caring attention from his Papa, his Dad walks back into the room — water, paracetamol, and his old quilted baby blanket in tow.
“Dad, I don’t need that,” he stammers, attempting to pull himself from his Papa’s grasp. This was starting to feel like one huge mistake.
“Mhm, I know,” Crowley mutters, draping the blanket over his shoulders anyway. “But it worked wonders when you were a wee thing.” He hands Percy a glass and two pills, his expression softening despite the teasing. “Been a while since you’ve been sick-sick, though. Thought you might want it.”
Percy doesn’t have anything to say to that. He simply nods and dutifully swallows the pills from his father.
“Let’s have a chinwag about childhood penchants another time, hm?” Papa says, and reaches his hand out to massage the back of Percy’s head, where the fluffiest of his curls meet the slightly-damp ringlets by his neck. “What’ll it be, darling? Our bed, or yours?”
Percy’s throbbing head serves as a stark reminder of why he’s done all of this in the first place. Papa’s soothing fingers feel like heaven on his scalp, and it doesn’t take much for him to let out a raspy, “Yours, if that’s okay.”
“More than.” Papa’s arm wraps around his slumped shoulders, ushering him under the duvet and easing him back against the pillows. “Because your tum is a bit bad tempered, I’m going to have you sleep on my side, closest to the bathroom. There’s a bin on the floor, just in case.””
If anyone knew trying to make it to the bathroom without throwing up was a risky game, it was Aziraphale. Crowley hadn’t been pregnant in ten years, and Aziraphale had his morning sickness last a harrowing nineteen weeks before it more recently let up. Not seeing a bin by his bedside was a welcomed sight lately, and while he was happy it wasn’t for him, he hated that it was for his baby boy.
Percy just hums as Papa slides in beside him, his Dad following suit on the other side. Wedged between them he feels a certain sort of contentedness he hasn’t felt in months.
“S’there anything going around at school?” the demon questions, followed by a jaw-popping yawn.
“Oh you know there’s always something going around at school,” the angel sighs, shifting his hips to try to get comfortable. “Especially this time of year.”
“Better keep him and Alice separated, then.” Dad pulls the covers up to his chin, tucking his face firmly into his pillow. “Might be too late, but s’always worth a shot.”
Percy ignores their conversation, a subtle whine escaping his lips as his back muscles spasm against the mattress. He’s sharing a pillow with his Papa, who barely has to move his neck to press a light kiss to his cheek.
“Our alarm is set for half seven,” Aziraphale says softly, but is interrupted by a snore that doesn’t seem like it could even come from his Dad’s body. The angel lightly swats his husband with his free arm.
Dad snorts himself awake. “M’listening!”
“I’m sure you were, dearest.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes, sharing a soft look with Percy before placing a confident hand on his son’s sensitive stomach. He begins to rub comforting circular motions in an attempt to soothe Percy’s aching muscles.
“Do not hesitate to wake us up beforehand, my dear. We’ll be off to drop Alice at school come eight o’clock, but we’ll head straight back.” He pushes Percy’s damp fringe away from his drifting eyes. “You’re most welcome to stay in our bed today.”
The pounding against his temples makes Percy almost regret doing this to himself— but when his Papa places another soothing kiss to his temple and pulls him close, the thought leaves him, sinking like a rock to the bottom of the Thames.
Percy lets his eyes drift closed, settling in to his Papa’s arms.
And so, the boy sleeps.
—
The sound of the alarm going off on the bedside table doesn’t immediately jolt Percy awake. He’s groggy, lost in a bit of a hazy fog that it takes him a few moments to even register where he is.
The covers are off of him, though, and he turns a bit to find a pair of stormy blue eyes staring at him with utter vigilance. Now that his eyes are fully open, he feels his Papa’s palm on his forehead. His eyes drift shut for a moment.
“Hello, darling,” Papa says, scooting up a bit to rest his back against the headboard. His hip is level with Percy’s head, and he shoves his face into the angel’s pajama bottoms to block his sensitive eyes from the sunlight filtering in past the curtains.
“How you feeling, kid?” Dad asks, rubbing a soothing hand across his back before moving to stand. “And you too, angel. Did you get any more sleep?”
“Never mind me,” Papa says softly, as Percy lets out a low moan. Somehow he feels even worse.
“Bad,” is all he’s able to choke out against the fabric of Papa’s sleepshirt.
Percy hadn’t expected to feel this awful. He had underestimated just how much he could harm himself with a half-hearted miracle — if he could even call it that. Whatever the opposite of a miracle was, surely that’s what he’d just done to himself. But a small part of him — the part that felt neglected by the parent who had always been so attuned to nurturing love — needed this.
So he says nothing, and instead rubs his nose against the surface where Aziraphale’s hips meet his tummy. He feels his father’s hand on the back of his head, holding it there.
“Do you think you need a doctor?” Dad asks over the top of him, voice coming from the edge of the bed now. The reassuring squeeze he gives Percy’s socked foot is grounding. “Might be too soon to tell, but you know your body, sweetheart.”
Plum, sweetheart… Percy nuzzles again into Aziraphale, as if he’s trying to burrow deeper into the plush, yet strangely solid surface.
The long forsaken terms of endearment wrap around him like a hug.
Why did I ever tell them to stop calling me these things? He feels like the biggest dolt to ever walk the earth, basking in the scent of his Papa’s nightshirt. It’s simple detergent mixed with the cocoa butter he rubs on his belly now. It’s certainly not a familiar scent, but Percy thinks it can become one, if he opens himself up to this more.
“N-no doctor,” Percy mumbles, and wraps an arm against Papa’s waist. He cannot see his Papa’s wet eyes as they meet his Dad’s, the angel upset that their son is so poorly, but also relishing in the affection from the boy he feels he’s gone eons without.
“I’ll be fine, I think.” He rolls over now, and is flat on his back again, facing his Dad. “Something’s going around my class. Felt like half the class was out last week.”
Papa nods and begins to scoot over and out, using Dad’s side of the bed to do so. Before he knows it, his parents are standing at the edge of the bed, staring at him curiously.
Papa stretches his back with a soft groan. Percy watches Dad take the moment to press his lips to the pale sliver of skin that shows between his shirt and waistband. Papa smiles briefly at the intimate moment, before turning his attention back to Percy.
He bends over and cups Percy’s left ankle. “How would you like to come downstairs and sit in my chair? Dad can get a lovely fire going, and fetch your, ah … electronic thingies… and I can make you a cup of tea and whatever you feel you can stomach. As much as I’d like to not have to move you, I’d rather keep a close eye on you. You’re warmer than earlier. I was hoping the paracetamol would bring your fever down.”
Despite the pain in his joints, and his blasted headache, Percy sits up almost immediately at the thought of what’s being offered to him. Papa’s chair? A cup of tea prepared by his hands, just for him?
“Oi, slow down there,” Dad grunts, a steadying hand pressed against his chest as he tries to roll out of bed. “I, too, would go to the races if it meant some angelic TLC, but–” he stops abruptly, because Papa is throwing him icy daggers.
Percy looks down, entirely embarrassed at Dad calling him out on his eagerness. But Dad recovers quickly, grabbing both of Percy’s hands.
“C’mon, up you go.” He half lifts the boy to his unsteady feet. Percy walks a couple steps forward before he freezes, hissing with pain.
Behind him, his parents exchange concerned glances.
“Please let Dad help you down the staircase, my dear. It’s not worth the ache.” Papa fusses where he lingers by the doorway. “I’m going to get myself washed and sorted, but I’ll be down in a jiffy. I hear your sister puttering about in the sitting room, but do try to keep your distance please.”
His hair is all over the place, white strands sticking up all over, and Percy notes he hasn’t seen his father look his mussed in who knows how long. He usually came downstairs just as breakfast was being served, and not a moment sooner. Papa was always dressed and ready for the day, while Dad was usually in his typical black joggers and whatever band shirt he could find. He rarely donned his black getup before noon.
For months now, Percy had figured that the less time he had to spend being asked questions about his upcoming school day and being fretted over, the better.
His dad’s hand on the small of his back interrupts his musings. “Oh I don’t think it’s going to be hard to keep them apart if this kid has anything to do with it, angel.” He laughs, and deftly scoops Percy up before he can protest. It’s so swift he barely feels himself shift positions. “C’mon, let’s do this quick so she doesn’t see. Your Papa taught her the term damsel in distress the other day, and I know you’re not keen on her finding a reason to apply it.”
Percy just cringes, and lets his dad do what he needs to.
—
A half hour later, Percy is resting in his Papa’s chair, a cup of tea in one hand and his cell phone in the other. Papa had also deposited Alice’s laptop and his own walkie talkie on his lap, adding his PS4 at his feet for good measure. Percy doesn’t have the heart to tell him he grabbed the wrong laptop, has no need for a walkie talkie, and that the PS4 is no good without his controller — and especially useless without an actual screen to use.
He assumes that’s why Dad’s been smirking every time he walks by. With Papa around, his Dad is never short on amusement. Percy doesn’t have the heart to say anything because he knows it would send Papa back up the stairs, and he’d heard Aziraphale begin to grumble about backaches lately. Some days he couldn't believe his Papa was carrying a baby. He had faint memories of his Dad pregnant with Alice, but just barely.
Percy tries to listen to the argument that’s now going on in the kitchen between Alice and their parents. Percy sighs, assuming that she’s jealous that he gets to stay home with them today, and wants to as well. Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past her to assume that she’s faking ill herself, doing whatever she can to convince them she shouldn’t go to school as well.
He lifts his head a bit as Papa comes back into the sitting room, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s dressed in his everyday clothes, dark tan slacks, long sleeve blue shirt and centuries old waistcoat. The waistcoat was on its last limb, the bottom two buttons undone, but it was clear the angel wasn’t ready to part with it just yet. Not that the family minded, anyway, as his garments were as comforting for them to see as they were for him to wear.
Papa doesn’t pay any attention to Percy, but instead kneels by the fireplace and picks up the red, embroidered bellows to puff more air into the steadily burning fire.
Papa is a fantastic girl dad. But even so, Alice knows exactly how to push his remaining buttons. If Papa’s fingers were at the top of his nose, everyone knew to leave him alone and let him be the first one to speak once he was ready. Percy had overheard Dad telling Alice more than once to understand that Papa was going to be even less patient as he got further along with the pregnancy.
The angel is still kneeling by the fire when Alice and Dad enter the room, Alice’s normally pristine uniform absolutely wrinkled her hair thrown into a messy ponytail. Dad looks like he’s seething and Alice gives Percy a sour glare, sticking her tongue out when their father turns to fetch his raincoat off the knob.
Percy didn’t need to have heard their muffled fighting in the kitchen to know something heated had gone down. Her uniform was always tidy, and Dad always took the time to immaculately braid her hair every morning, seemingly with a new, intricate design each day.
Whatever she pulled, their parents were not having it.
If Percy wasn’t feeling so dreadful, he would have smirked to return the raspberry she threw in his direction.
Her little feet stomp across the hardwood as he makes her way towards the door, trying to get Papa’s attention as he continues to oxygenate the fire more than he needs to at this point. Despite the ruckus, He doesn’t give in.
“I’m not talking to you when I get home, Papa!” Alice huffs, and swings the door open. Dad’s smiling at her antics, because of course he is. As if she has eyes in the back of her head, she turns around and glares at him.
“Woah ho ho!” the demon presses a hand to his chest.
“I am very cross with you, too!”
Dad chuckles again, and follows her out the door. “How will our hero cope?”
Alice screeches, and a flock of birds that were perched on the roof scuttle away. Percy takes a sip of tea to keep from laughing, knowing that the only other person in the room to find that funny was gone.
At their departure Papa sighs, using the bellows to balance himself as he stands back up. “Very sorry about that, my dear,” he says, adjusting his waistcoat with little success at finding a desired fit. “Between you and I, sometimes she presumes that bad attention is better than no attention at all. I’m hoping she’ll grow out of it soon.”
Percy takes another sip of tea, eyes downcast at the murky colored liquid. Something about the look of it, and the way it slides down his throat suddenly does not agree with him. He looks up at his Papa, his free hand flying over his mouth.
The angel can’t move fast enough, and Percy throws up into his hand. The contents drip out of his palm, and before Papa can get him up and to a bin, he’s projectile vomiting again. Without a moment's hesitation, Papa is cupping his hands under the boy’s chin, trying to get last night’s dinner and the two glasses of water that his parents had him drink that morning to stay hydrated into his hands and not onto the chair and carpet.
“I’m so sorry, Papa,” he manages to choke out between his shuddering gasps, tears freely flowing now as Papa hurries over to the kitchen sink to thoroughly wash his hands.
“It’s perfectly alright!” he calls back as he scrubs up to his arms, light blue sleeves miraculously rolled up to his elbows. The angel turns his scent receptors off, because he knows if he doesn’t, he’ll be next to vomit.
After a steeling breath in the calmness of the kitchen, his Papa comes back into the sitting room with an expression so tender that Percy’s lower lip wobbles even harder. He’s holding a large salad bowl against his hip, and his right hand is pressed against the dip of his lower back. “Do you feel you’ll be sick again?”
Percy feels a pang of guilt for putting his pregnant father through this on purpose. He thinks about it for a second, but shakes his head. If he concentrates too much on the smell of vomit from his hands, he thinks he might.
Aziraphale comes over and places the bowl in his lap, and begins to wipe his hands clean with a warm, soapy makeshift pad of kitchen roll. “Ah yes, let’s get you all cleaned up, hm? Would you stand up for me, dearest?”
Percy sets the bowl on the armchair, and does as he’s asked. He feels Aziraphale’s hands under his armpits as he helps him up.
Percy cries out,muscles seizing in pain at the sudden movement..
“Sorry, sorry…” Papa soothes, and suddenly, his hands are pressing against Percy’s back, ribs, and then one cups the back of his neck. “Oh, my darling — you’re quite damp…”
Percy watches as Papa digs into his pocket and retrieves an old-fashioned thermometer. He’s fairly certain he saw the same one in a YouTube compilation of the Victorian times from his History of Great Britain class just last year.
Percy opens his mouth, and lets Papa slide the object under his tongue. He looks up at him while they wait, and the angel offers him an encouraging smile in return. Suddenly his Papa’s hands fly to his belly, and he gives a playful, discontented sigh. “You and your sister are fighting for my attention this morning, aren’t you? Well, you’re out of luck, my sweet. Big brother Percy is all mine today. You’ll have to try again tomorrow.”
And before he realizes it, Percy’s crying again.
“Oh, my dear… none of that.,” Aziraphale thumbs away his tears, and looks at his pocket watch. “Just another twenty seconds for accuracy, I promise. And then we’ll get you in a bath at just the right temperature to bring that fever down.”
Percy nods miserably, the incessant aching in his muscles making him inadvertently shiver. A bath sounds heavenly.
—
The bath was hell. Well, it wasn’t hell, because hell was much warmer than the necessary temperature Aziraphale had prepared it to be before leaving the room and giving Percy privacy.
Percy’s shaking now, arms folded around his chest as he tries to focus on his laptop, perched carefully at the edge of the tub. He watches Dr. Who do a somersault and avoid three robots shooting blue laser beams at him. Nice.
Briefly, he considers trying one more time to reverse the miracle, but isn’t sure if he has the energy left to do so. He feels his celestial reserves wavering, worse than any time when his parents began teaching him how to use his abilities. They knew when they needed to stop his lessons for the day, because of course they did.
His parents always knew what to do.
Which has led him to his current dilemma. Percy was starting to feel a deeply-seated fear in his gut at this entire situation. It wasn’t supposed to be this bad. His sickness was meant to register on a thermometer, and he was supposed to feel just ill enough that he didn’t have to perform, but he also wasn’t supposed to feel like he was genuinely suffering.
It also was supposed to have let up by now, not get worse.
Percy’s teeth chatter together, and he can only hope that Papa slipped something angelic into the bath water without telling him. Human remedies — he’s now certain — won’t touch this, because this wasn’t a human ailment.
Downstairs, Crowley and Aziraphale rest on the two seater across from the fireplace. Crowley had stopped at Aziraphale’s favorite bakery in town after going to Boots to get some cold and flu medicine for Percy.
Aziraphale finds himself sitting upright, starting slightly into the distance as he nibbles at an almond croissant with one hand, and rubs the fabric of Crowley’s trousers between his thumb and forefinger with the other.
“Penny for your thoughts, angel?” Crowley asks, extending his foot to toe at Aziraphale’s wrist.
Aziraphale places his half-eaten pastry on the plate and sets it down on the side table with a small clattering sound. He pats Crowley’s leg. “Oh, nothing you aren’t already privy to, dearest. I- I know we’re mere hours into this, but I don’t like seeing him so poorly. The poor dear can barely walk.”
Crowley sits up a bit at the sound of Aziraphale’s tone of voice, but doesn’t make a move to press closer to him. If either of the two was to get overstimulated from touch easily, it was Aziraphale. Crowley could have the kinds hanging off of him like a tree all day if they wanted to, but Aziraphale was much more sensitive to it and tapped out faster.
From the looks of the morning, Percy wasn’t going to share his leaning, cuddling, or burrowing with Crowley. As much as the angel looked like he needed to be embraced himself, Crowley knew now wasn’t the time.
“Makes me think it’s got to be the flu,” Crowley muses, and stares at the dying fire. He’s so comfortable, but he knows if he doesn’t get up soon, Aziraphale will. And the angel was already looking exhausted from stress and lack of sleep. The baby had him up twice kicking on his bladder before Percy came into their room that early morning. So he stands. “Y’know, I tried to get Alice to spray some Lemsip First Action up her nose before she got out of the car, but she refused.”
Aziraphale sighs, picking up the croissant again to nibble mindlessly. “I don’t know what got into her this morning, Crowley. I’m fully aware she knows how to turn on the dramatics, and turn them up remarkably high, but she’s a reasonable little thing when needed. Why wouldn’t she take it?”
Crowley adds some kindling to the fire, and watches it carefully to see if the bellows is needed thereafter. “Dunno. She was on again about how there’s no point, and how we wouldn’t listen to her anyway so she’s not talking to me anymore and we aren’t watching Gogglebox together tonight.”
“Good Lord,” Aziraphale says, cheeks full of pastry. There are crumbs on his chin now, and Crowley’s heart twists. He loves his angel. “I haven’t had a moment to consider what all that was about.”
Crowley maneuvers around, bum on the ground. “I’m guessing she just wants to punish me for not letting her stay home.”
“Not Gogglebox, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs. “All that she said in the kitchen, about how Percy was up to something last night, and how he’s just playing us for fools and that he’s not actually sick.”
“Course he’s sick!” Crowley frowns. “If we gave her the chance to really see the state of him, she’d be sorry for all that.”
“She’s ten, for Heaven's sake. The dear’s not sorry for anything unless it benefits her to be.”
Before Crowley can respond, Percy’s calling their names from upstairs, voice tired and hoarse. Crowley stands with ease, and Aziraphale feels a pang of envy at how he can get off the settee without so much as the corner of a table or — God forbid — a bellows.
“You don’t have to get up, angel,” Crowley says as he walks by the sofa. “I’ll make sure he’s dressed and get him downstairs.”
Aziraphale considers this for a moment, and lets Crowley go up alone.
—
When Crowley finally carries Percy downstairs, the boy is positively pallid, twin blooms of red high on his cheeks. Crowley can feel with just a hand on his upper arm that the cold bath did nothing to bring his temperature down, nor did the medication the pharmacist recommended. Percy’s barely speaking now, just near tears and clearly too miserable to do much of anything.
Crowley had used a miracle to dry his hair because he was shivering so badly, and yet, he’s still acting as if he’s just dove into the sea at their village’s New Year's Day plunge. The demon tries to act as nonchalant as possible to not stress Aziraphale, but his son’s behavior says it all.
“F-freezing,” Percy gasps, even though he’s in one of Crowley’s crewnecks, his own warm flannel pajama pants and has a pair of Aziraphale’s wool socks on.
Speaking of, as they make their way downstairs, Aziraphale is stood up and ready with the heaviest blanket in the house. Crowley wordlessly deposits Percy on the couch, Aziraphale immediately fussing and wrapping him in the quilt.
“Ah, there you are,” Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley can sense the undertone in the angel’s voice as he valiantly tries not to panic at the state their eldest is in. The angel sits back down, and Crowley gnaws on his bottom lip, helping his husband pull their son’s limp body onto his lap. The demon is especially mindful of both his husband’s middle and the boy’s aches and pains.
“I am so sorry about the temperature of your bath, darling. I truly hoped that it would help bring your fever down. What was it, Crowley?”
“39.7.” Crowley sighs harshly through his nose, crossing his arms over his chest.
Aziraphale simply tuts and wraps his arms around the lanky thing. “Now that won’t do, will it?” He tightens his hold on the boy to help control his shakes. “But that’s alright… we’re going to figure this whole debacle out, aren’t we?”
Percy nods sullenly, but very grateful for the warm, sturdy arms that hold him, and not the hard, porcelain, antarctic tub.
“NHS nurse said if it gets to 40 we have to take you in, sweetheart.” Crowley rubs Percy’s trembling shoulder. “Maybe we can call one of your mates' parents? Ask what they did to help get them through this? Nasty bug, this is.”
Percy immediately shakes his head, which is a mistake. He tips it back and scrunches his face. “No! No. They said they w-were b-better after a d-day. It was b-bad for a whole d-day and then stopped.” He shudders, attempting to reign in his trembling. “Fevers burn out infections, don’t they?”
“They do, darling.” Aziraphale smooths his hair back, and tugs the blue blanket closer under his chin. “But your father and I do not care for how high yours is. Every time you or Alice has fallen ill, medicine has at least temporarily alleviated it, and a mindfully tempered bath always did the trick, too.”
Percy knows where this is going.
“If I’m not b-better by tonight, I’ll text a f-few of them, okay?” He uses what energy he has left to turn and press his face into Aziraphale’s chest. He doesn’t want to face his parents' scared expressions anymore, knowing he was the one who did this to them. “N-need to sleep it off.”
Aziraphale and Crowley exchange what feels like the hundredth worried glance of the day, but nod.
And so they let him sleep.
—
Percy doesn’t know how long it’s been, or what time it is for that matter, when he wakes up again. What he does know, is he’s still with his Papa, but no longer wrapped in blankets as he was. His head is resting on his Papa’s thighs, and there are gentle fingers soothing his scalp.
He feels feverish still, his clothing sticking to him where his body is covered in sweat. His head still throbs, and incessant pounding between his temples that’s making him feel nauseous — but thankfully his body doesn’t hurt anymore. He wants to get down on his knees and thank God, if that’s what it takes.
Ew.
“... glided past the shimmering nebula of Andromeda, an urgent message crackled through the ship’s comms” Aziraphale says with excitement. ‘Captain Orion,’ we have detected an unknown signal emanating from the dark side of the moon Zenthara,’ reported Lieutenant Lyre, her voice steady but tinged with intrigue…”
Percy glances just enough to the side to see the book Papa is reading to him, and his heart feels like sinking. It’s one of the many Papa has bought him over the last year in hopes that at least one synopsis will finally color him intrigued and lead to a reading session between the two of them.
“Hi, Papa,” Percy interrupts, giving him a weak smile. “Think I’m getting better.”
Papa’s face breaks out into a beam, and he sets the book down on the arm of the chair. “Ah, the power of literacy. I am so glad to see you awake.”
His dad laughs from the kitchen. “And potentially modern medicine? Just maybe, though! Only a hunch.”
Papa ignores his dad’s antics, and continues to look down at Percy with utter relief. “Your father’s preparing dinner and your sister is keeping a distance from upstairs, although it’s not like we had to ask her to. Welcome back to earth, plum.”
Percy goes to stretch, but fails. He thinks his body just must be stiff from staying on the couch for so long, so he gives himself another moment. “I didn’t sleep on you this whole time, Papa, did I?”
Papa’s still smiling, and a soothing hand caressing Percy’s warm cheek. “I had to get up a few times, mind you, but you were out like a light. You more than let me, not to worry.”
Percy is relieved to hear this. He still feels awful but isn’t about to complain to his parents about it. If he can be up and around, he can handle the lingering fever and headache. The body aches were sent by some force of evil, he was sure.
So he attempts to get up and stretch again, knowing his father could probably use a break and do the same himself. He finds once more that he cannot. He tries harder, a grimace on his face now that Aziraphale catches, and he finds a frowning face in front of him now. “What is it, dear boy?”
Percy tries to move again, and cannot. His breaths become erratic as he tries with all his might to move limbs that don’t feel attached to his body.
“Papa,” Percy’s breaths are ragged now, eyes wide. “Papa!” he says again, but with much more volume.
“Percy!” Aziraphale calls back, and pulls the boy up from under his shoulders so he’s cradled in his arms. The baby rolls and kicks anxiously, sensing her father’s sudden spike in blood pressure. “Percy, Percy, what is it?”
Crowley skids into the room, tea towel over his shoulder.
Percy’s chest heaves, and he only knows because he can see it, but he cannot feel it. “Can’t move,” the boy lets out, before his eyes roll back and he faints.
Aziraphale thought he knew fear when he handed Crowley a thermos full of holy water and imagined it destroying his only true friend on earth. He thought he knew fear when his back was against the stone wall of Eden and God was questioning where his flaming sword was, although She fully knew the answer already. He thought he knew fear when the archangels cornered him at his bookshop and demanded he return to heaven and lead a platoon at the start of Armageddon.
But being a parent has made fear have an entirety new definition.
The first time Aziraphale felt fear so strong that he thought he had been reborn and stripped of all experiences that built him and the courage he amassed over the millenia on earth, had to do with his child.
Fitful kicking within his tummy grounds him to the present, the gravity of the situation causing an awful pressure to mount in his chest. He struggles against the onslaught of panic, an incessant buzzing in his ears paired with the splotches dancing in the corners of his vision.
His son is completely limp in his arms.
“He can’t feel his body, Crowley,” Aziraphale pants, pulling his child to his chest and roughly patting his back. He’s lost in a haze of panic; he has no idea what to do. “He- he can’t feel it!”
“Angel, you need to breathe,” Crowley commands, kneeling by the sofa.
The pair of them don’t notice the curious steps making their way down the stairwell. Alice stops halfway down and watches the commotion, not used to seeing her valiant Papa in such a state of fear.
“We should have taken him to a doctor, we should have- I can’t heal him like this, Crowley!”
Crowley’s eyes may be entirely serpentine now, but his breathing remains even. He knows he can’t falter, not when Aziraphale is already falling apart. For a brief moment, Crowley places his hand on Aziraphale’s belly, and looks up at his husband. “Aziraphale, I mean it.”
The angel shakes his head a few times, lips trembling and tears falling. He tries hard to get this breathing more rhythmic, and settle his heart rate. “Please wake him up, Crowley! He should have come to by now!”
Crowley reaches over and pulls Aziraphale’s arms away from the boy’s chest, and begins to palpate his sternum. He rubs once, and then a second time, and Percy comes to, eyes fluttering open.
“S-stop!” he cries.
Aziraphale sobs in temporary relief, covering his face with his hands.
“You felt that, Percy?” Crowley’s voice remains steady, and he has his hand on the boy’s wrist now, feeling his weak pulse. “That’s good. We’re going to call an ambulance now, and let the nice doctors take a look at you and get you feeling yourself again. How’s that sound?”
Percy doesn’t answer. But Alice does.
The girl finishes her descent down the stairs, and stands behind the couch. “He doesn’t need the hospital, daddy,” Alice says softly, despite knowing that she was right all along, and that they simply didn’t listen to her. She couldn’t stand to see Aziraphale’s blotchy, tear-streaked face and the yellow slitted eyes staring back at her, knowing that she had the potential to make her parents feel even worse.
So she makes sure not to.
“Alice, we appreciate your input, but I need you to get me my cell phone-” Crowley says slowly, not before swallowing hard. His two fingers are on Percy’s neck now, checking his pulse again. “And once you do, I need you back upstairs ASAP. If it’s what I think it is…”
As for the angel, his eyes are closed, and he’s praying over the boy, lips moving just barely. It’s as if there’s no one else in the room besides him and Percy, having tuned everyone out.
Percy is still speechless. The gravity of the situation is beating on him left, right and center. His father is praying, for fucks sake. He feels himself grow faint again, and closes his eyes.
“I- I was in his closet last night while he was playing video games, or at least I thought he was,” Alice says, gaining just enough courage to admit this fault now that her brother has gone unconscious again. Aziraphale continues his ministrations as if he hasn’t heard a thing. “I was spying on him and I shouldn’t have, I was bored.”
“Alice, if this is about your brother’s illness, please spit it out,” Crowley says desperately. “He’s very, very poorly, darling — we need to get him some real help.”
Alice grits her teeth. “I am helping, daddy. I don’t know what he did but when he stopped playing video games, before he went to brush his teeth-”
When you would have snuck out of there… Crowley thinks, but is desperate for answers. He lets her carry on, and is grateful when Percy comes to again with just a few pinches at his wrist. The boy looks like he wants his sister to shut up, but he doesn’t stop her.
“He did something. He did some kind of miracle, and it was so… bad?” Alice recalls, face twisting. Aziraphale’s prayers pause, and he opens his eyes at the word miracle. She’s relieved that her Papa’s back with them, but is a bit scared of the haunted look on his face. “It left a bad taste in my mouth and I almost got caught because it made me want to cough. It made my eyes sting.”
Aziraphale and Crowley’s eyes meet, and they both sag with relief at being one step closer towards an answer, and a cure.
This was their department, then.