Chapter Text
Behind sleek dark glasses, Crowley tries shutting his eyes. This doesn’t help. Good job bright sunlit days like this are so rare in London. Sometimes, instead of keeping him warm, the rays seem to just stab right through to his brain. He closes the shop door again. “Aziraphale, I don’t think I can take you out for breakfast after all.”
They were up all night, talking (debating), both too wired for anything else. Just like old times, but also not like old times at all. All their fears and certainties have changed enough that this new life is going to take some getting used to, and that’s the understatement of the millennium… or several. Unlike alcohol, there’s no way to sober up from existence, no cure for a reality-hangover.
Crowley could’ve gone back to his flat, with its comforting dark walls, thick curtains, and the thermostat always turned way up. But that would mean being alone.
The back room of Aziraphale’s shop is cozy enough, and with the desk lamp off, only dimly lit. There’s one particular chair that Crowley has claimed as his own, and if either of them had thought properly about it, they might have realised that Aziraphale must have acquired it with Crowley in mind. An ample overstuffed armchair, upholstered in simple dark grey velvet. No matter how ridiculously he drapes his long limbs, there’s enough cushioning to make it almost comfortable, which is about as good as furniture gets for him these days.
But now, Crowley has just made it back to Aziraphale's study and is perched on the edge of ‘his’ chair, resting sharp black-sleeved elbows on equally bony drawn-up knees, long fingers curled into flaming hair, as if squeezing his head would stop the pressure inside. It doesn’t. He lets out a noise that wants to be a low moan, but more approximates a desperate whine, and immediately regrets making any sound at all.
Aziraphale must’ve heard. He turns away from an unplugged hotplate in the corner, that nonetheless has a kettle boiling on it, and bustles over.
He bends down close, his voice quiet but urgent, “How can I help?”
Crowley shakes his head almost imperceptibly, but still enough to hurt. “Miracles don’ work on this, r’member?”
“Wouldn’t you like some tea? Cocoa?”
“Nuh-uh. ‘M … wazzit? Seasick. Without the sea.”
“Nauseous? And it just came on suddenly, again?”
“Yeah. Jus’ had a look out the door and WHAM,” Crowley mutters, splaying out his hands to mime the pain hitting both sides of his head. He doesn’t look up, though: he’s stayed crouched over all this time.
The room is not at all chilly, in fact Crowley’s fringe is dripping with perspiration, but even with a jacket on, he’s begun to shiver so hard that Aziraphale at first thinks he’s crying.
Aziraphale stands still for a moment, holding his own mug in both hands. There’s a small sound of wood, plaster, and other matter rearranging themselves somewhere behind Crowley, but he doesn’t notice it over the noise of people in the street outside. Aziraphale gulps down his cocoa uncharacteristically quickly and sets the mug on his desk. “ You need to get some rest.”
“Can’t sleep. Too much--” Crowley briefly takes one hand off his head to gesture incoherently at the universe in general.
“I know, I know. But if you just lie down in the dark for a bit…?”
“Nah,” but then, after a few beats, each of them pounding in his head, “Maybe?”
“May I?” Aziraphale doesn’t normally look inclined to lift anyone, but no one knows better than Crowley that appearances are deceiving.
Crowley turns redder than his hair, but doesn’t protest. He lets Aziraphale scoop him up as if he were a child-- no, children are more kicky and squirmy with lots of energy, aren’t they? As if he were some very weak or lethargic being of about half his current weight.
He leans his head gratefully into Aziraphale's plump shoulder, probably sweating all over his plush cardigan (at least the prized frock coat is hung up well out of harm's way).
Aziraphale elbows open a door that Crowley is pretty sure didn't use to be there, and they go into the complete darkness of a room that didn't use to be there either. Crowley can still see, of course, but it's not as painful.
Aziraphale lays Crowley down on a rather large bed and undoes his shoes, then pulls up smooth grey sheets and an extremely soft blanket over him. But nothing could be as soft as Aziraphale’s hands on his head, soft and cool like flower petals, like quiet water.
“You don’t sleep,” murmurs Crowley.
“Maybe I do now,” says Aziraphale, and lies down beside him.