Work Text:
It started with a cough.
"Just a little tickle in my throat."
Then a sniff.
"Must be quite a lot of pollen in the air."
They'd been such small things that no one took any real note of. Why would they? After all, since when was a little sniffle cause for alarm? It wasn't as if angels or demons could actually get sick. No, it was simply something in the air and that was it. But it quickly turned out to be more than just 'something in the air' when he waltzed into the bookshop one day to find Aziraphale, eyes red and puffy, snot dribbling down his face, and wheezing like he'd run a marathon.
"Oh, hello, Crowley. Nice of you to come...and...visit..."
He'd barely taken two steps forward when his legs had given out on him. Never before had Crowley moved so fast in his life, barely managing to catch the angel before his head slammed onto the floor.
Holding an unconscious Aziraphale in his arms, Crowley's mind had gone a mile a minute. Beings like them didn't get sick. It was physically impossible. Except, it wasn't. He'd heard rumours but hadn't wanted to believe it. Stories of demons and angels coming down with some strange sickness had been slowly trickling throughout Hell. He hadn't believed any of it. Of course not. Why would he? Beings like them didn't get sick.
Crowley's grip on Aziraphale had tightened as he'd watched the man struggle to stay awake. He'd always dreamed of one day holding him like that, arms wrapped around him as he held him close to his chest, but not like that. That hadn't been romantic or sweet, that had been absolutely terrifying. Seeing the angel he loved more than the world itself, too weak to move, scared him in a way he couldn't describe.
Clearly needing looking after, Crowley had suggested Aziraphale move in with him, if only until he got better. He hadn't even needed to think before agreeing. That had been a week ago.
Crowley walked into his bedroom, a glass of orange juice in one hand and a small white pill in the other, wearing a big smile as he said with a chipper, "Back from the store, angel, and I bought some stuff I heard is supposed to help when you're ill. Not sure if any of this actually will seeing as they're aimed at humans but no harm in trying, right?"
His smile faltered as his eyes landed on the lump in his bed. Aziraphale lay there in tartan pajamas, top unbuttoned to reveal a slowly rising and falling chest glistening with sweat. He wheezed as if every breath seemed painful and it made Crowley's own chest ache in a way he never thought possible.
"Here," he gently said as he brought the pill up to Aziraphale's mouth. Crowley popped it in between chapped lips before bringing the glass forward, hand on the back of his head, holding it up to help him drink easier. He watched that spot on his neck that bobbed with every gulp. "Thirsty thing, aren't you?" he told him with a hollow chuckle. "That's good. Apparently oranges are full of all sorts of goodness that helps with all this, you know, sick business. The pill is supposed to help with fevers. I know the cough syrup you took before didn't do anything but maybe this will be different. Yeah, I'm sure it will. This is supposed to be the really strong stuff."
The smile Aziraphale gave him was small but genuine, making Crowley's heart ache. "Thank you, Crow-" he started but was interrupted by a fit of coughing.
"Aziraphale? Aziraphale, are you alright?" Crowley asked in a panic.
Once he'd calmed down, Aziraphale said in a raspy voice, "You've been doing so much for me. Sorry for being such a burden." Every word sounded painful to say.
"Don't be ridiculous, angel. What was I supposed to do? Leave you passed out in your bookshop? I'd be a pretty rubbish friend if I did that, yeah?"
They'd long given up on denying there wasn't some connection between them and now the word friend was thrown around so casually it felt as if that was how they'd always been. But, with every passing day, 'friend' seemed less and less like what he wanted to describe Aziraphale as. There was something else there, a growing desire for more that, frankly, terrified him. Things were good between them. Great even. How could he think of ever ruining that by bringing feelings into it?
"I also bought some ingredients to make chicken soup. Not sure how that's supposed to make anyone feel better but some humans swear by it." He neglected to mention that he'd never actually made soup of any kind before. But how hard was soup, really? It was just a bunch of stuff thrown in hot water, right?
"That sounds quite nice, actually."
There was that smile again. Weak but so full of...he didn't want to say love. Gratitude was more like what it was. He was feeling terrible and was simply happy there was someone there to help him. He would have looked that way at anyone, really.
Crowley excused himself and walked out of the room but, instead of heading straight to the kitchen, collapsed onto his living room couch that had been his bed for the past few days after giving Aziraphale his actual one. He'd get to the soup in a minute, he just needed a moment to collect himself. He buried his face in his hands and let out a low, exhausted groan. Aziraphale wasn't getting any better. If anything, he was only getting worse. He couldn't even sit up without help for Heaven's sake! What was he going to do if he never got well? No, he couldn't think like that. Of course he'd get better. There was no way a stupid cold would put him down.
There was a crackle of static from the small radio that rested on his coffee table and an all too familiar voice said, "Crowley?"
Really not in the mood to be ripped a new one for whatever slight they thought he'd committed, he did his best to ignore it in hopes they'd go away. No such luck as after a few moments he got an angry, "I know you're there, Crowley, and if you don't answer your next assignment will be in the arctic."
With a heavy sigh, he said "Hello, Beelzebub."
"You haven't reported in for over a week."
"I've been busy."
"Busy?" the radio snapped. "Do you have any idea what's going on right now? It's chaos, Crowley."
"Why? Did Furfur try hosting another bingo night?"
Beelzebub's next words were quiet, solemn in a way he'd never heard from them before. "Gabriel's dead."
"I...what? He discorporated?"
"No, Crowley. He's dead. Gone. There is no coming back for him."
Had he heard them right? He couldn't have. Gabriel? Archangel fucking Gabriel? Dead? "That's quite the dark sense of humour you have there. Not surprising but, come on, at least try to think up something believable," Crowley chuckled uncomfortably.
"You think I'm joking?" they hissed. Then they paused, but only for a moment, their next words an eerie quiet that sent a shiver down his spine. "He got sick a couple weeks ago with whatever it is that's been going through us. He got worse and worse until-" He could've sworn he heard their voice crack as they spoke. They then inhaled sharply followed by an exhale, seemingly calming themselves before, voice firm once more, adding, "Gabriel's the first to fall but I doubt he'll be the last. A lot of us aren't looking so great. You need to come back urgently. We're holding discussions on what to do moving forward and everyone needs to be there. No excuses, Crowley."
And with those last words they were gone. Crowley sat on his couch, body tense as he stared at the now silent radio. They had to be wrong. This flu, or whatever it was, there was no way it was strong enough to take down an angel. Especially not one as powerful as Gabriel. He was an archangel, untouchable by damn near everything. Except by whatever this disease was, apparently. And if it could take out someone like Gabriel then everyone else was fair game.
Crowley leapt off the couch and sped back to his bedroom. "Aziraphale?" he questioned as he looked inside to find him seemingly stiller than he'd left him. A wave of panic washed over him and when Aziraphale gave a little groan and turned his head to face him, he felt more relief than he had in his long life.
"Is the food done?" Aziraphale asked in a low croak of a voice.
"Not yet. I'll get to that in a moment. I was just, um, checking on you. Just seeing if you needed anything else," he lied through his teeth.
"Actually, there is something I want if it's not too much trouble."
"Anything, angel."
"Could you stop by the coffee shop and get me some cocoa and a blueberry muffin?" He sounded so frail, Crowley had to strain his ears to even hear him.
He wasn't the biggest fan of the idea of leaving him on his own but looking at those big blue eyes made it impossible to say no. "Alright, alright," he said, "I'll be back soon."
And that's how he found himself waiting in line at Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death when he should have been back at his flat looking after Aziraphale.
"Good morning, Crowley. What can I get for you?" Nina greeted him when it was finally his turn after what felt like hours (when in reality it had been closer to three minutes but even three minutes can feel like an eternity with a sickly angel waiting for you).
"Just a large cocoa to go and a blueberry muffin."
After waiting another few minutes that felt like they went on forever, he was handed his back and bag containing one blueberry muffin. But before he left, Nina asked, "How's Mr. Fell?"
"What?"
"It's just that the last time I saw him he looked a little under the weather. Is he alright?"
He thought for a moment. "He's a little out of it, yes, but he'll be on top of things in a matter of no time," he said, deciding it was best to downplay Aziraphale's failing health. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't doing it more to convince himself everything was going to be okay than her. Because it wasn't going to be okay, was it? His grip on the bag that held the blueberry treat tightened to a point it was a surprise it didn't rip. "I have to go now," he stated before turning around and heading back to the Bentley, Nina's goodbye background noise chasing after him.
As he sped down the street back to his home, his mind was racing, going places that he really didn't want them to go. It was ridiculous to think of, wasn't it? Aziraphale would be fine. He'd be fine. Perfectly fine. Gabriel was a fluke, he had to be. And what if Beelzebub was wrong? They could've gotten faulty information, couldn't they? Yes, that had to be it. It must have been just a rumour that got out of hand. That idiot Gabriel was no doubt up there, tissue in hand, complaining about how disgusting he looked with snot dribbling down his face. It was a funny (if gross) image of the usually stuffy and well dressed angel.
When he pulled up to his flat, he parked the car and took a moment to collect himself. Everything was going to be fine. Aziraphale would get better and they'd laugh at how Crowley played nurse for a week. And after they were done laughing at his poor attempt at making soup, Crowley would look in his eyes and he'd tell him. He'd tell him exactly how he felt, how he had felt for so long he found it hard to imagine a time the angel hadn't been in control of his every waking thought. He'd finally tell him he loved him. First, however, he needed to give him his much needed cocoa and muffin.
He quickly made his way up to his flat and into the bedroom to find Aziraphale sleeping soundly. No surprise there. He placed the bag and cup on the bedside table and pondered for a moment if he shouldn't let him sleep or wake him up. Waking up was probably the better option. He'd most likely be annoyed if his cocoa got cold before he got the chance to even taste it.
"Hey, angel," he said as he placed a hand gently on his shoulder and gave him a gentle nudge. "Hey, wake up. Your stuff's here. Come on, no one likes cold cocoa, do they?"
Nothing. He shoved him a little harder and called out his name a little louder. Still nothing.
"Seriously, Aziraphale, I know you're tired but you're not too tired for..."
His sentence trailed off as he looked at him, really looked at him. His chest was no longer rising and falling in that shallow way it had before. He looked at his face, at his closed eyes, parted lips, and the calm stillness that seemed to make itself at home on his beautiful features.
"No."
Crowley took a sharp step backwards, bumping the bedside table, knocking the still hot drink off to explode all over the floor.
"You can't be," he said, voice only a whisper. Nonono. This couldn't be happening. Hands clenched into fists, he screamed, "Is that why you wanted me to get you that damn cocoa?! So I wouldn't be here to watch you die? How fucking selfish can you be? You didn't think I maybe wanted to be here for when you-" He took another step back, not caring that his designer shoes were getting ruined my a puddle of sugary brown liquid. "Or didn't you know? Did you not know and I just left you here to die alone? Damnit, angel, which is it?!"
Silence.
Another step back and Crowley was slipping backwards across the wet floor to land with a hard thud on the ground. He lay there, unmoving, staring up at the ceiling, uncaring about the throbbing pain at the back of his skull. It didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered anymore.
His eyes began to burn as hot tears threatened to surface. In a soft voice he muttered, "What am I supposed to do now, Aziraphale?"
Silence.