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‘Why not go to bed if you’re feeling rotten?’ asked Crowley, not unreasonably.
Aziraphale brushed away his concern. ‘Not necessary my dear. Besides, it would be such a waste of time.’
‘Time is not something we’re short of.’ Crowley countered. ‘Come on angel, you’ve already admitted you’ve got a thumping headache.’ He moved a step closer. ‘And I can feel you radiating warmth like a space heater from here.’
‘It’s just a bit of a cold,’ Aziraphale protested.
‘You’ve got a raging fever.’
‘Fevers serve a purpose,’ said Aziraphale demurely.
‘Yeah, all part of God’s plan and all that. They still make you feel like crap.’ Crowley stepped closer and ran his hand gently up and down the angel’s spine. ‘You’ll feel a lot better in bed.’
Aziraphale wavered. He was tempted. It may only be a cold, but it was proving to be one of the fluey and feverish feel-as-though-you’ve-been-hit-by-a-bus variety and he was so sore and achy that bed sounded uncharacteristically appealing.
‘I’ll even join you,’ Crowley offered, playing his trump card. He pressed himself up against the angel, throwing himself into the delicious opportunity to tempt. His hand moved from the angel’s spine to his hip. ‘Go on, you know you want to.’
‘Come now, that’s not playing fair!’ Aziraphale protested.
‘Who said anything about fair?’ said Crowley, ‘I just want to get you into bed.’
Aziraphale flushed pink, though whether from embarrassment, arousal or fever, Crowley couldn’t tell.
‘As you insist, I shall have a short rest,’ said Aziraphale, with as much dignity as he could muster, ‘but I assure you, it’s quite unnecessary.’
Their bedroom looked out over a wide expanse of the south downs, the rolling hills so different from the London landscape that had been the backdrop to so much of the last hundred years for them both. Crowley drew the curtains to shut out the bright sunshine, and turned on a sidelight, setting it on its dimmest setting so as not to aggravate the angel’s headache.
Aziraphale sank into bed, secretly glad to no longer be upright. He shivered. Ridiculous to feel so cold when he knew that objectively speaking he was running rather hot. The bed dipped as Crowley got in beside him and Aziraphale winced as the draught that accompanied the demon prickled across his skin. Crowley shuffled over and put an arm affectionately round him, pulling him close with a soft grunt. Aziraphale took a deep breath, savouring the wonderful smell of Crowley’s wrist just beneath his cheek and shivered again.
‘You are absolutely burning up,’ said Crowley, shifting his hand lower and placing it against the hot skin of Aziraphale’s chest. ‘And I can hear you wheezing.’ He propped himself up on one elbow and frowned down at the angel, ‘Why didn’t you say how bad you were feeling?’
‘It’s just a cold,’ said Aziraphale awkwardly, ‘No sense making a fuss about nothing.’
‘You’re an idiot’ said Crowley firmly, lying back down and pulling the angel close again. ‘A complete idiot. Now shut up and try and sleep.’
Aziraphale closed his eyes. Sleep still didn’t come naturally. On the other hand, his head hurt less with his eyes shut and that was sufficient reason to make an attempt at it. He shifted uncomfortably. It would be rather easier to sleep if his muscles weren’t aching so badly.
‘Shhh’ said Crowley soothingly, hugging him tighter.
It was rather lovely having Crowley there to look after him. Of course, in some ways he’d always had it really. Dear Crowley. A kaleidoscope of snapshots in which Crowley came to his rescue played through his feverish mind, merging together and sometimes melding into fantasy endings of what might had been. He pressed into the hug, pressure from the demon's body partially soothing some of the pains in his back. Crowley had always been there for him, but this, this being openly loved was really rather wonderful.
Finally, he drifted off into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of rescues followed by crepes and slightly indecent things done with cream and chocolate sauce.
Once Crowley was sure that Aziraphale was asleep, the demon extracted his arm from under the sleeping angel and waited for the feeling to return to his fingers. Then he quietly eased himself upright. He wished he brought a book or something with him. Should've thought of that! Idiot. Course, there was a pile of books on Aziraphale’s side of the bed. Two piles in fact. He could dip into one of those. On second thoughts, having scanned the titles, maybe not. He was bored, not masochistic. Crowley folded his hands behind his head and leaned back against the headboard surrendering to boredom. In front of him, the curtains flapped irritatingly in the breeze. Should've shut the window too. The angel shivered, trembling against Crowley’s leg in a way that was deeply distracting. Not now! Crowley told himself sternly, moving to tuck the covers more tightly under Aziraphale’s chin. It wasn’t often he saw Aziraphale sleeping and he looked breathtakingly beautiful. Feeling awkwardly like a fairytale prince with a dubious attitude to consent, Crowley gently kissed the flushed cheek. Aziraphale sighed in his sleep. He had no business being so bloody desirable, Crowley thought, petulant with frustration.
Sometime later, when Crowley had mentally redecorated the bedroom, played eye-spy with himself and plotted a minor uprising in a less than democratic country, Aziraphale jolted awake so suddenly that Crowley jumped. The angel looked around him wild-eyed. ‘But the books!’ he said in panic. Then he frowned in confusion. ‘Where’s the rubble? The bomb…’
‘You were dreaming, angel,’ said Crowley, placing a reassuring arm around him. ‘That was years ago.’
Aziraphale smiled faintly. ‘Of course!’ He touched his hand to his forehead as though trying to manually rearrange his thoughts. ‘Silly me! Just a tad confused.’ He swallowed painfully. His throat felt as though he’d run through a burning building.
Crowley leaned forward and placed a hand on Aziraphale’s forehead. ‘You’re still hot as hell’ he observed critically. ‘How are you feeling after sleep?’
‘Much better,’ Aziraphale lied, cursing the way his voice crackled as he spoke.
‘Stay here,’ Crowley ordered. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’
While Crowley disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, Aziraphale stretched experimentally. The headache had definitely improved, but his throat felt worse and swallowing was distinctly unpleasant. He was quite as achy as before, but given he seemed to be just as hot, perhaps that wasn’t surprising. That said, now he actually felt hot as opposed to cold, so that could also be regarded as cautious progress in the right direction.
Crowley came back in, pushing the door open with his shoulder, both hands full. ‘Drink,’ he said, handing the mug to Aziraphale.
The angel sniffed it suspiciously. ‘That’s not tea!’
‘No shit Sherlock!’ said Crowley scathingly. ‘It’s medicinal and soothing. Drink it.’
Aziraphale took a tentative sip. It was far too sweet, but he couldn’t deny it was soothing. Buried beneath the sickly flavour was the bitter taste of medicine. He glanced up, ‘Well, I suspect you are drugging me without my permission my dear, but it is acceptable.’ He smiled. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thought you might like this too,’ Crowley said, tossing the paper tube of an ice lolly onto the bed. It was one of those shaped like a core sample from an ice sheet. Aziraphale knew from past experience that there was no way to eat it and maintain any type of dignity.
He fixed Crowley with a mildly disapproving look, ‘Are you sure you didn’t think you’d like to watch me eat it?’ he asked pointedly.
Crowley was unrepentant. ‘Maybe that too,’ he conceded. ‘But it will be good for your throat.’
‘Will it indeed!’ said Aziraphale with the faintest hint of a pout. He peel off the little foil lid and placed it delicately on the bedside table. Then he looked up at Crowley closing his hand firmly around the tube.
He was definitely feeling a bit better, Crowley decided. He’d only be that much of a provocative bastard if he was closer to feeling himself.
The angel beamed at him, ‘I believe I need to encourage it to melt in order to extract it,’ he explained.
‘Careful,’ Crowley countered, ‘Don’t hold it too tightly, you’re so hot at the moment it’ll melt in seconds.’ And it won’t be the only thing, he added to himself.
‘Of course,’ Aziraphale agreed. ‘The right amount of pressure is crucial.’
Crowley sighed and wondered why he had engineered this particularly intoxicating form of self-torture. Perhaps he was a masochist after all.
‘Whoops! There we go. Got there!’ said Aziraphale happily as the ice lolly shot up out of the paper tube and launched himself toward his face, narrowly missing his nose. He took the smallest of licks and looked up innocently at Crowley. ‘I’m sure there must be an etiquette to this, but I’m afraid I never mastered it.’ He laughed apologetically, ‘I never know whether to lick or suck.’
‘Just don’t bite angel,’ groaned Crowley, stuck somewhere between heaven and hell in his imagination.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Aziraphale thoughtfully. ‘I do sometimes nibble a little bit at the end, when it’s liable to drip.’
Crowley made the sort of strangled noise made by someone very deliberately not giving in to a whole range of internal desires and sat down hastily on the bed. Aziraphale looked up with naïve concern. ‘Are you quite alright my dear?’
‘You,’ said Crowley deliberately, ‘are a very bad angel!’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!’ said Aziraphale innocently. He held Crowley’s gaze and took another lick of ice lolly. ‘This really is delicious by the way. Very much to be recommended.’
Crowley was right as usual, the ice was so very soothing to his throat. Aziraphale wondered with a sudden pang of guilt whether perhaps it was rather naughty of him to tease the demon so. Very immature of course; School boy humour they called it, but it felt so deliciously intimate too. Back in the mists of time Aziraphale hadn’t understood teasing very well. There’d been moments of misunderstanding when he'd misinterpreted the demon’s sarcasm as fact or taken a witticism rather too personally, but centuries of exposure – not to mention vast tracts of literature – had taught him a lot about humour in all its forms. And affectionate teasing was so very bonding. Moreover, if he were completely honest with himself – and truth was important - he rather enjoyed seeing the effect he could have on the demon. A happy moment of confirmation that the demon still found him, well, desirable. Aziraphale, croaky, hot, and achy felt anything but at the moment, and it was nice to see that Crowley clearly had other ideas. He finished the last of the ice lolly with a satisfying crunch that made Crowley - mind still elsewhere - wince.
‘That was lovely!’ said Aziraphale with a smile. ‘Thank you my dear.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Crowley distantly and still a little preoccupied. ‘Although I swear you’ll be the death of me.’ He leaned forward and planted a kiss on the angel’s forehead, tasting the sting of salt on his skin. Lovingly he smoothed back the angel’s white curls, damp from sweat, and cupped the angel’s face in his hand. ‘You feel just as feverish,’ he said gently.
‘It really is just a cold’ protested Aziraphale, torn between hating unnecessary fuss and rather liking the cossetting.
‘Well, you’re staying there ‘til your back to being a vaguely normal temperature,’ Crowley said firmly.
Aziraphale sighed, pain flaring in his chest as he breathed deeply. ‘You’re being terribly forceful,’ he complained.
‘That’s not normally something that you object to,’ Crowley shot back with a look that made Aziraphale blush.
‘Well,’ said Aziraphale firmly, ‘If I am to be imprisoned in the bedroom, then I absolutely insist on your company.’ He fixed the demon with a stern look. ‘I believe that was the deal.’
‘Wouldn’t have it any other way’ said Crowley, slipping nimbly back under the covers next to him. The sound of the angle’s wheezing was louder from that angle. ‘You sound like a bloody kazoo’ he observed dryly. ‘You are absolutely going to stay in bed and let me look after you until your better.’ And after you’re better, please stay in bed a bit longer because I have plans, he added to himself.
Aziraphale put his head affectionately on the demon’s shoulder; it was too thin and bony to be particularly comfortable, but the action still gave Aziraphale a warm and cosy feeling that had nothing to do with his fever. After centuries of yearning, being able to casually touch the demon still gave him a thrill.
‘I suppose I should thank you for taking care of me,’ he said softly, ‘Even if you have been terribly bossy about it.’
‘You love it angel!’ said Crowley with quiet confidence.
‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale simply, ‘I suppose that I do.’