Happy Holidays, ofsnakesliesandkings!

[goe_mod]

Title: Brewed With the Best of Intentions

Recipient: ofsnakesliesandkings

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

Rating: T

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Sick Crowley, Caring Aziraphale, Worried Aziraphale, Panic Attacks, Aziraphale and Crowley take care of each other

Warnings: Non-graphic depiction of vomiting

Summary: Aziraphale invites Crowley down to the shop to try out a special new blend of tea, but things take an unfortunate turn when they discover there’s a whisper of sage hidden in the brew.

---

In typical British fashion, it had all started with an offering (and therefore the reluctant acceptance) of tea.

“What’s the occasion?” Crowley asked, arching an eyebrow from his place on the old settee, as he watched Aziraphale bustle into the backroom with what looked to be a full afternoon tea service that’d been ripped straight from the Ritz (likely because it actually had), minus the add-on flutes of champagne they usually tacked on.

Aziraphale set the tray down on the low table in front of the sofa and asked back, “Does there have to be one?”

“No, obviously, but this looks special.” Crowley’s brow furrowed in thought, wracking his brain for any kind of anniversary or special event that today marked in their long-shared history, but drew a complete blank. “You can’t tell me that you broke out your Limehouse set for an ordinary teatime.”

Aziraphale was silent.

“So, what is it? What important date did I forget this time?”

Aziraphale remained silent. However, he busied himself with pouring their tea, and then motioned towards the sugar pot and small pitcher of milk, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Two sugars, no milk.” Crowley flapped a hand, choosing to bite back a complaint when Aziraphale dumped two overly generous (that really could have counted as either a proper three or a scant four) spoonfuls of sugar into his cup. It would be much too sweet, but hopefully that would help cover up most of the tea-rrific taste. “Come on, Aziraphale.”

“You told me not to tell you that I broke out my Limehouse set just for an ordinary teatime.”

“So, you did then?”

“I thought that was fairly obvious,” Aziraphale said primly, sliding over a darling little teacup cradled on a matching saucer, along with a small spoon with an extravagant handle that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an old woman’s vintage spoon collection, before fixing his own tea. “Here you are, my dear.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley huffed a laugh, wrapping his hands around the cup to leech off its warmth. He’d meant for it to come out exasperated, but it ended up landing more in the fond territory. “You know that, right?”

“So you enjoy telling me,” Aziraphale came around the table and, after Crowley shuffled over to make room, sat down on the sofa. Crowley desperately tried not to think about the way their shoulders or thighs occasionally brushed with even the slightest of movements. “Now hush and drink your tea.”

“What kind even is this?” He asked, staring dubiously at the reddish-brown liquid in his cup, and then, instead of waiting for an answer, gave it a quick sniff. It was only through a sheer effort of will that he didn’t immediately recoil away into a harsh sneeze when the sudden burst of florals, as well as something else he couldn’t quite place, sent a fierce itch all throughout his nose.

“Darjeeling,” Aziraphale replied, oblivious to his demonic companion’s reaction as he took a deep breath of the fragrant steam wafting up from his own cup, letting it back out a second later with a pleased little wiggle and sigh. If this blend tasted as good as it smelled, then he was in for quite the treat. “I got it from that new tea room down the road. The young person that sold it to me said it tastes almost as sweet as a good champagne, can you believe that?”

Crowley really didn’t, but he also didn’t feel the need to rain on the angel’s parade by dismissing that statement as the utter bollocks it was. And so, instead, he gave a noncommittal grunt in response and raised the cup to his lips, only remembering to raise his pinky finger when Aziraphale shot him an expectant look from over the rim of his own cup.

It tasted well enough at least, which was quite the glowing compliment coming from someone who wasn’t as fond of the drink as Aziraphale obviously was. But while it wasn’t bad, per se, was it normal for it to burn going down?

Crowley tried not to pull a face as he swallowed, and discreetly cleared his throat against a rather odd, almost itchy, sensation that had taken up residence there shortly afterwards.

Maybe it had been too hot when he drank it. He hadn’t bothered to cool it down by blowing on it beforehand, so it was entirely possible for him to have scalded himself by accident. Plus, that would explain why his throat was suddenly bugging him.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself, savoring the sweet notes of orange blossom and cardamom dancing on his taste buds, before diving back in for another sip.

“Mmm, that’s absolutely marvelous. I can certainly see why it’s called it the champagne of black teas.” He licked his lips appreciatively, settling his cup back onto its saucer with a soft clink. After dithering over which kind of nibble he was in the mood for, he settled on a cucumber and dill sandwich to start. “What do you think?”

“Doesn’t taste like champagne to me,” Crowley grunted.

But before he could complain any further, a sudden cough burst out of him and he hurried to settle the delicate teacup down on the table, missing its saucer entirely, before the next bout of coughing struck.

He wrenched to the side, doing his best to angle himself away from Aziraphale and the expansive spread laid out in front of them, as he continued to cough and cough and cough. Desperately, he tried to suck in a deep breath to quell the burning in his lungs, but it died in his throat and made his chest ache even more with each barking cough that tore through him.

What the fuck was going on with him?

Clearing his throat, he tried to get a hold of his finicky corporation and straighten up, but his body didn’t want to cooperate. A wave of cold terror washed over him, causing his already tight chest to constrict even further, when he realized he couldn’t stop—couldn’t break the vicious cycle of coughing, gasping, wheezing, and repeating until he felt like he was gonna pass out.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

But when he tried to express his concerns to Aziraphale, he could only manage to choke out a panicked wheeze that sputtered out into another horrible round of coughing.

“There really is no need for that kind of reaction, my dear.” Aziraphale sniffed, rolling his eyes and clicking his tongue in disapproval at the demon’s dramatics. “I know you might not like it as much as I do, but it’s not that bad.” He took another sip of rather excellent tea, settling in to wait until Crowley had had enough fun mocking his tastes.

That all changed, however, when it looked like Crowley couldn’t seem to be able to stop—clutching at his throat as he coughed and wheezed and, frankly, looked as if he was having a serious reaction to something.

“Crowley?” Suddenly alarmed, Aziraphale abandoned his teacup and moved to grasp Crowley’s shoulders, steadying the demon as another bout of coughing tore through him. Aziraphale winced, his own chest aching in sympathy at how painful it sounded.

“Crowley?” he repeated over the awful hacking coughs, moving one hand to cup the demon’s cheek. The amount of heat he found rolling off the normally cold-blooded demon was startling, to say the least. “Crowley, what’s wrong?”

Crowley blinked slowly, showing no signs that he’d heard who was talking to him. Everything had taken on an awfully muffled quality, almost as if his head had been stuffed with thick cotton or wool that muddled each of his senses.

Can you hear me, dear boy?

Something patted Crowley on the cheek as soon as his eyes slipped closed, body giving into the sudden exhaustion that had slammed into him, and he groaned softly at the disturbance. Why was someone trying to keep him awake when all he wanted to do was sleep?

Weakly, he tried to turn out of the grasp and get away from whatever was keeping him awake, but ended up slumping against the front of something—or someone—solid, yet soft, and very warm.

No, no, no—Crowley, don’t faint! Please, you mustn’t faint!

Another pat to his cheek, more urgent this time, but he ignored it, too worn out from all the coughing and wheezing of earlier to pay it much mind.

Wake up, Crowley—please—you need to stay awake. Crowley!

And then, too quick for him to understand what was going on, there were strong arms around him, lifting him up towards the heavens—even though he promised himself he’d never go back there—and cradling him securely against a plush chest.

Belatedly, he realized there were words being spoken to him. He couldn’t parse what was being said, but he felt them as a comforting rumble in the chest of whoever was holding him so gently, as if he were a precious thing. It made his head swim, even more than it already was.

And then, oblivious to the sound of someone calling his name and telling him to hold on, Crowley passed out.

---

Guilt steadily ate away at Aziraphale as he petted back the curls that had been plastered to Crowley’s forehead and sponged the sweat from his deeply flushed face, brow creasing in concern at the wheezing edge to each shallow breath the demon took.

It was painful to see Crowley so sick and in such a poor state, but it was made even worse to know that he’d been the cause of such pain and discomfort. Although it had been an unfortunate accident, as he hadn’t known there was sage in the tea blend, he still felt somehow at fault for his carelessness.

And so, he’d resigned himself to sit by Crowley’s bedside, talking to him in soft tones and reading to him when his sleep became restless as nightmarish fever dreams took hold, and hoped—no, prayed—that Crowley would be okay.

---

When Crowley came to sometime later, it was to the sound of someone reading to him.

“From the east and west only a single shot had been fired,” Aziraphale read, voice hushed and holding a slight rasp as if he’d been reading aloud for hours—or perhaps even days, if the heaviness in Crowley’s limbs were anything to go by. “It was plain, therefore, that the attack would be developed from the north and that on the other three sides we were only to be annoyed by a show of hostilities. But Captain Smollett made no change in his arrangements. If the mutineers succeeded in crossing the stockade, he argued, they would take possession of any unprotected loophole and shoot us down like rats in our own stronghold.”

The soothingly familiar tones of Aziraphale’s voice washed over Crowley in gentle waves of comfort that covered him like a thick blanket and, despite feeling like complete and utter shit, he allowed himself a small smile as he turned to nuzzle his cheek deeper into the pillow that was cradling his neck, settling in to listen with his eyes closed.

He had almost been lulled into a doze by the time Aziraphale paused with a heavy sigh, causing him to risk cracking open an eye to peer at the angel sitting somewhere to his left.

And, wow…Aziraphale looked rough.

To an outside observer he would’ve looked fine, maybe a little tired, but Crowley knew better. Aziraphale looked downright exhausted as he pushed up the nifty reading glasses he always insisted on wearing, though he didn’t need them, and rubbed at his puffy, red-rimmed eyes. Even through the haze of sleep and illness, it was clear that Aziraphale had been crying.

Something twisted painfully in Crowley’s chest at the sight, having nothing to do with the coughing he was plagued with.

“Azir’phale?” he croaked, and then immediately devolved into a harsh coughing fit that left him panting and wincing at how much his throat ached, like he’d swallowed shards of glass. “You all right?”

Aziraphale rushed to steady him, holding him up when the coughing turned into gagging and then into retching. And though nothing came up but a thin stream of bile, Crowley was glad that Aziraphale had been kind enough to hold back his sweat-soaked hair as he dry-heaved over the edge of the bed.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale rubbed his back in soothing circles with his other hand, trying to provide as much comfort as he could to his ailing friend. “I should be the one asking you that, I’m afraid. How are you feeling?”

“I asked you first,” Crowley panted out, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief the angel provided him. His stomach still didn’t feel great, but it had settled enough that he didn’t feel like he was in danger of being sick again when Aziraphale helped him lie back. “You look tired.”

“And I could say the same about you,” Aziraphale shot back, just as stubborn. “But if you must know, I’m fine. You gave me a fright earlier when you collapsed and I’ve just been terribly worried about you ever since, that’s all.” He looked away as he spoke, seeming to focus very hard on pulling the hideously ugly, though pleasantly weighted and warm, quilt back up from where it had fallen off Crowley’s shoulders. “Now then, I believe you owe me an answer as well.”

Crowley, too tired and sick to protest, accepted the fussing in stride, sucking in deep breaths through his nose and letting them slowly back out through his mouth to chase away the lingering nausea before answering. It helped some, yeah, but each deep breath he took sent a stab of pain through his side. Great, he probably gave himself a broken rib from all the hacking and coughing he’d been doing.

“Guh, my ribs’re fuckin’ killing me.” Groaning, he tried to shift into a different position, to take some of the pressure off of his side, but couldn’t manage it on his own. “Hnrk…think I might’ve cracked one of ‘em.”

“Be careful, you’re still very weak. There’s no need to—”

“I’m not weak,” Crowley growled. But his arms proved otherwise, giving out from under him as soon as he tried to put any weight on them and he soon crumpled back onto the bed in a heap. “Ow…”

“Of course you aren’t, my dear. I didn’t mean it that way,” Aziraphale placated, making a sympathetic noise in his throat that Crowley glared at him for. “I would rather you didn’t push yourself so soon, is all. You had quite the fever earlier.” Aziraphale pressed a blissfully cool palm to Crowley’s brow, frowning at the feverish heat that refused to budge. “And still do, I’m afraid.”

Crowley closed his eyes as Aziraphale’s hand moved into his hair, stroking the sweaty curls back from his forehead and scratching gently at his scalp with finely manicured nails, before Aziraphale seemed to realize what he was doing and pulled back. Crowley tried not to mourn the loss too much and, instead, attempted to shift again.

But as soon as he started moving, the pain came back with a white-hot vengeance, blazing all throughout his side and back, as spots danced across his vision. Shit, he might pass out again.

“Oh dear, here. Let me.” Aziraphale helped the frightfully limp demon to sit up, taking care to fluff up the pillows and stack them at his lower back for more support. He then turned to dunk a cloth into a bowl of cool water that hadn’t been on the nightstand a moment before, wrung it out, and bathed the sweat from Crowley’s face and neck. “It’s the least I can do after—well, after causing this whole mess, I suppose.”

“Hng?” Crowley muttered vaguely, leaning into the gentle touches. Steadily, the darkness encroaching in the corners of his vision ebbed away. “‘S not your fault.”

Aziraphale’s entire face crumpled in guilt.

“I’m afraid that it actually was,” he admitted down towards the tartan bedspread, voice shaking as he tried to hold back the sob that threatened to burst out. But, despite his best efforts, it escaped anyway. “I’m sorry! Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry!”

“Woah, woah, hey!” Crowley rushed to sit up, fighting to focus through the dizziness and pain that rocketed through him at the movement. He should really ask Aziraphale to bind his ribs at some point, but he could worry about that later. Right now, calming Aziraphale down from what was shaping up to be a panic attack was higher on his list of priorities. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Aziraphale cried, breaths racing faster and faster until he was gasping. “Crowley, I could have killed you! I—I…” He broke off, confusing Crowley even more as harsh sobs wracked the angel’s body.

“Shhh, breathe angel. Everything’s okay,” Crowley soothed, though he still felt a little lost and rattled as to why Aziraphale had suddenly burst into tears. “Wanna tell me what brought this on?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeated, bumping his knees against the wooden bedframe as he involuntarily rocked himself forward. And though he showed no signs of having felt it, Crowley couldn’t help wincing as the bed rocked with the hard impact.

“Yes, you’ve established that, but what exactly are you sorry for?”

“The tea…” Aziraphale sniffed messily, tears streaming down his cherubic cheeks in fat rivulets that Crowley ached to reach up and brush away. “I had no idea there was sage in that—that damned tea blend, else I—I, I wouldn’t have thought to buy it in the first place!”

“There was sage in the tea?”

Well, that certainly explained a few things. Sure, it hadn’t been the first time that Crowley had consumed something he probably shouldn’t have—far from it in fact, as a half-empty bottle of laudanum had sat at the top of the unfortunate list since 1827—and risked being discorporated for doing so, but sage was definitely a new one to add to his death-defying repertoire.

“Yes,” Aziraphale hiccupped in anguish, struggling to breathe through the waves of panic and worry that threatened to drown him in a sea of guilt. “I didn’t know, and—you started choking and then you collapsed, and, and—” he gasped, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “This was all my fault!”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley sighed, gently coaxing the wet cloth out of Aziraphale’s hand, and swiftly replaced it with his own slender hand. If all that was true, it was no wonder Aziraphale was so freaked out. “Look at me for a sec, yeah?”

Aziraphale, still hyperventilating, looked at him through the haze of tears, causing even more to slip down, and this time Crowley reached to gently thumb them away with shaking fingers.

“There you are,” he rewarded with a fatigued smile, giving the hand he held as hard of a squeeze as he could manage. Which, embarrassingly, wasn’t as hard or reassuring as he’d hoped it would be, but it seemed to be enough to get through to Aziraphale as he squeezed back soon after, sniffling. “Now, listen to me. This wasn’t your fault, okay? I’m more upset at seeing you beat yourself up over this than about actually drinking the damn sage.”

“But I—”

“No buts,” Crowley said firmly, trying to give Aziraphale’s hand another comforting squeeze, but couldn’t manage it with his energy starting to flag as badly as it was. “You didn’t know it was in there and neither did I, simple mistake. The smell and taste were masked pretty well under all that…whatever the hell that citrusy floral stuff was.”

“The orange blossom was a bit overpowering, wasn’t it?” A wet laugh bubbled up from Aziraphale’s throat, sounding as though it had gotten stuck halfway, as he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, only accomplishing in pushing the tears around. “Oh dear, I shouldn’t be making you take care of me when you’re the one that needs to be taken care of.”

“I don’t mind.” Crowley snapped with a wince, summoning a deep red handkerchief that was noticeably of lower quality than intended, and handed it over for Aziraphale to dry the last of his tears. “Anyhow, I think we could both use a bit of care after all this…and a nap.” Crowley leaned back with a small groan, feeling even more exhausted from the small use of power. “You should take one, too.”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale said, laying his hand against Crowley’s brow. Pursing his lips as he found the demon’s temperature a bit higher than it had been, he reached for the discarded cloth and resumed the task of sponging the sweat from the demon’s flushed face. “I feel much better after getting it all out, as they say.”

“Oh, come ooon,” Crowley swayed, and if it looked a little more like a drunken sailor than the dashing tempter he usually was, well…there was no one here but Aziraphale to judge. “The bed’s big enough for the both of us. You could, uh, ngk—” the offer got caught in his throat, but he tried to get his point across by patting the empty space on the bed next to him. “Y’know?”

“You want me to join you?” Aziraphale asked for him, eyeing the narrow bed with obvious doubt. He could have easily made it larger with a miracle, but the thought of having to snuggle up against Crowley to avoid having his bottom hang over the edge was certainly tempting. “Are you sure you feel up for that?”

“‘Course. I’ll probably sleep, but you can read if you don’t wanna,” Crowley mumbled around a yawn. “Maybe pick up where you left off in that book you had earlier, wossit called?”

“Treasure Island,” Aziraphale answered, dunking the cloth and wringing it out again, and then laid it over the demon’s burning forehead. “I figured you’d like to hear something with a bit of action and adventure in it.”

“I like to hear whatever you read to me.” The truth tumbled off of Crowley’s loose tongue before he could even attempt to claw it back in, half asleep as he was. “Could read something as boring as a cookbook ‘nd I’d probably like it…jus’ like hearing y’r voice, ‘s nice.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale couldn’t hold back the soft chuckle, eyes shining with a special type of affection he only saved for the demon. It wasn’t often that Crowley confessed such things out loud, no matter how clear his feelings for Aziraphale were through his actions, and Aziraphale held each instance dear to his heart. “Your fever’s risen, I think you might be feeling a touch delirious.”

“‘M not,” Crowley shivered out a complaint as the blankets were lifted and cold air rushed into his warm cocoon, but it turned into a pleased hiss when Aziraphale slipped under the covers and pressed against his side. Huh…maybe he was a little delirious after all, considering how dizzy and off-balance he suddenly felt.

And though Crowley had made an immediate attempt to curl every available inch of himself around the new source of heat, Aziraphale had taken care not to crush demonic growth attached to his hip and thigh as he scooted back against the headboard.

“Comfortable?”

“Almost,” Crowley grunted as he pushed himself up on shaking arms. But before Aziraphale could ask what he thought he was doing, he flopped down onto the angel’s lap and draped himself across it like a gangly blanket. His ribs didn’t appreciate the jostling, or the angle he was now lying in, but he was too comfortable to pay it much mind. “Mmn, there. That’s loads better.”

Aziraphale froze under the unexpected contact, and Crowley immediately cursed himself for being so bold, for going too fast. Aziraphale didn’t like fast, he should have known better.

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered. But before he could pull away, roll over, and resign himself to sleeping on the very edge of the bed to put a good three inches of space between them, Aziraphale’s arm came down around his back and held him firmly in place.

“No, no,” Aziraphale said, drawing up the blankets to cover both of them a little better in their new position. “You’re quite all right where you are, so long as you’re comfortable, my dear. No need to get up on my account.”

Crowley rolled over enough to peer up at the angel with a dubious look. “Yeah, but are you comfortable?”

“Very much so, thank you.” Aziraphale gave a pleased little wiggle, rocking Crowley gently with the motion.

“Hmm…good,” Crowley nestled himself deeper into the warmth of Aziraphale’s plush lap and, deciding to push his luck, threw an arm over the angel’s legs for good measure. “Y’know, I always wondered what it would take for you to let me use your lap as a pillow, but nearly dying from drinking sage tea wasn’t on my bingo card.”

“Oh hush, you old serpent.” Aziraphale scolded, blushing with residual guilt. But it gradually melted away as he began to card his fingers through Crowley’s hair, brushing some order back into the unkempt strands.

It felt nice. So nice, in fact, that it was making it even harder for Crowley to keep his eyes open.

“Now then,” Aziraphale stretched to the side and grabbed his old copy of Treasure Island off the nightstand, fixing his glasses back into place on the end of his nose. “Would you like me to start at the beginning or shall I pick up where I left off?”

He looked down when he received no answer, and saw that Crowley had fallen asleep with his nose pressed into the angel’s thigh.

“From the beginning it is, then.” Aziraphale smiled, turning to the first page.

Comments

Adorable

[holrose]

I love a bit of hurt comfort. This was so nicely done, with the fussy serving of tea and then Aziraphale’s distress and taking care of Crowley so tenderly. Then snuggles, which is always nice. Lovely!

[(Anonymous)]

Ooooh, this was adorable! A perfect little sick fic for a rainy winters day. I especially liked the way you described Crowley slowly losing consciousness. Thanks for sharing this!

Very cute!

[(Anonymous)]

Awwww, the poor things! It's so sweet that Crowley made sure to reassure Aziraphale that it wasn't his fault and the cuddling at the end was also super sweet too. This was such a cozy little fanfic to read, well done!

[maniacalmole]

The first sentence, already, made me laugh XD
“lifting him up towards the heavens—even though he promised himself he’d never go back there” ooh this is neat!
Sage! I remember reading the prompt about one of them ‘somehow’ getting sick, and this is such a clever way of doing that! And now we can all imagine more scenarios of them caring for each other, because you solved the not-human problem ^_^
Treasure Island!!! I think Crowley would love that book :)
‘I asked you first’ typical them, lol
Sleeping on his lap!!!! Sleepy Crowley being unable to stop himself is so good. And Aziraphale is so comforting :)
“From the beginning” !!
This is SO sweet, thank you!