Chapter Text
Crowley did not get migraines often.
Okay, so they happened often enough that Crowley usually kept a bottle of Excedrin Migraine in the Bentley, and Aziraphale kept a backup bottle in his coat, but not often enough to know the warning signs and take proper measures to prevent them from becoming unbearable.
Such was the case today.
Crowley and Aziraphale has been invited to Anathema’s house for a dinner party she and Newt were hosting. The Them were in attendance, of course, and up to their usual shenanigans but a bit more dialed down, since they were indoors and eating.
That did not prevent them from being loud, however.
After they had left, since their parents wanted them home by a certain time, Crowley began to notice the way his head started to feel clouded and as if his brain was swimming. Maybe I’ve had too much wine? He thinks to himself, even though he knows very well that he hasn’t even come near to his usual amount, wanting to set a good example for the children.
Aziraphale plops down on the sofa next to him, holding his second slice of Anathema’s pie, and Crowley feels a light stabbing pain start up in the inner corner of his eye sockets as the blueberry scent wafts over to him.
“This pie is absolutely scrumptious!” Aziraphale exclaims after taking a large bite, and Crowley winces at the loud noise. In reality, Aziraphale hadn’t exclaimed anything and had simply complimented the pie in his normal, soft speaking voice.
Crowley began to panic as he realized the migraine symptoms were coming on fast, and he currently had no medicine to stop it. Aziraphale had thrown out the bottles of Excedrin the other day, since he noticed they had both expired a few months ago on the same day, since they had been in a two-pack, and Anathema only kept ibuprofen in her house, which for his migraines was basically the same as taking nothing.
The stabbing pain was now intensifying and two more points of stabbing had developed on his right temple and above his right eyebrow as he tried to follow along with Anathema and Azirphale’s conversation, which had switched from compliments on pie to a semi-debate about books.
“I’m just saying that I don’t think Gatsby was all that great,” Anathema says. “He had a fling and then became obsessed with her and tried to break up her marriage and win her back with money and illegal activity.”
“While I’m not saying that you’re incorrect,” Aziraphale begins, “I still have such a soft spot for Gatsby and how devoted he seemed to be. Sure, he definitely went about things the wrong way, but Daisy and the green light represent- Crowley, dear, you’re sweating. Are you alright?”
This wouldn’t be a cause for concern, since it was summer and the cottage currently had no air conditioning, but Crowley, having been a snake, tended to run cold and almost never sweat. Now, however, Crowley’s forehead prickled with sweat as he suddenly felt overwhelmingly warm as he tried to deal with the mounting pain and trying to ignore the small spots that were now appearing in his vision.
“Peachy,” Crowley responds through slightly gritted teeth. He wants nothing more than to put his head down on the cool surface of the coffee table, but that will definitely send the message that he wasn’t alright. Crowley didn’t like to have people fussing over him much when he sick, unlike Aziraphale, who needed to be held and cuddled, which Crowley gladly did.
“Oh, Aziraphale, he doesn’t look too good,” Anathema adds, looking a bit concerned.
Crowley wishes he could put his sunglasses on, to try and block out some of the bright light that’s causing his head to near imploding. Come to think of it, it’s also making the lovely wine, dinner, and dessert sit heavily in his now churning stomach. Now his vision is swimming thanks to the awful aura that’s now creeping its way into his vision. Oh, he hopes he’ll be fine and won’t need to lie down or worse, like throw up.
It’s probably been too long since he’s spoken or supposed to have responded, so he says, “I’m good. Fine. Must have drank too much too fast.” He winces at how much talking hurts his head and also at how shaky his voice came out sounding.
Aziraphale frowns in concern, knowing that Crowley had definitely neither drank too much nor drank too fast and how bad he must be feeling to have said that.
“Anathema, I’m terribly sorry, but will you please excuse us for a moment?” Aziraphale asks. Anathema nods and takes Aziraphale’s plate into the kitchen. Azirphale then turns to Crowley and asks, “Are you having a migraine, my dear?”
“I don’t know, I think so,” Crowley responds quietly.
“Do you need me to see if we can stay here until it passes?” Aziraphale asks. “I know your vision sometimes gets all swirly, so you won’t be able to drive.”
Crowley wants to respond, but he suddenly feels unbearably nauseous and dizzy, so he groans and leans forward to place his head in his hands. He hates feeling nauseous when he has a migraine, since he usually stays that way for a while before he can finally throw up, which he hates, and because it always manages to make his headache worse, since dizziness usually accompanies nausea for him.
He feels Aziraphale’s hand on his back, rubbing it, which is nice especially since he feels like the room is spinning even with his eyes closed. He feels the hand go away for a bit and figures Aziraphale is probably letting Anathema know what’s going on. Although Crowley’s not sure how long this takes, it’s long enough for his nausea to increase tenfold and make him even more miserable. He feels like his stomach is in his throat and his insides keep churning and twisting upsetly.
The last thing he wants to do is move from his current position, but a bitter taste starts to fill his mouth, and he really doesn’t want to vomit all over the floor. He forces himself into an upright position and forces himself to open his eyes as he stands up.
Standing was a big mistake.
Crowley is overcome with an awful wave of vertigo that makes the room spin around him at an awkward slant, causing his nausea to reach a tipping point as it forces him to double over and dry-heave.
“Oh dear, let’s get you to the toilet,” Aziraphale frets as he enters to the room to see Crowley mere seconds away from redecorating the floor with sick. He rushes over to Crowley and drags him to the bathroom, where he lowers the taller man in front of the toilet. Crowley groans and dry-heaves again, causing Aziraphale to wince in sympathy. He knows how much the demon hates to throw up and tries to avoid it for as long as possible, which often makes him feel worse. Aziraphale starts to rub Crowley’s back again.
“Shh, it’s alright, just let it happen,” Aziraphale says softly, hoping to offer some comfort.
Crowley groans before retching and then throwing up. Azirphale continues to rub his back and brushes some hair off his forehead as Crowley throws up some more and practically hugs the toilet.
Crowley can hardly recount a time he’s ever felt worse than he does now. His head feels seconds away from being sliced open, he barely knows which way is up, and he can’t stop vomiting. He’s glad Aziraphale is there with him, rubbing his back, or else he might actually cry.
The retches finally die down, but Crowley stays slumped over the bowl, not trusting his body to be done yet, since his stomach is still upset.
“Are you ready to rinse your mouth?” Aziraphale asks softly. Crowley raises a shaking finger to say no as he hiccups. Aziraphale sighs and moves his hand to rub Crowley’s stomach, something they always do when one of them have an upset stomach.
After a few minutes, when the hiccups stop and the vertigo dies down, Crowley shakily moves away from the toilet bowl, looking and feeling like death with his face an awful pale, almost green color, and his eyes dull and rimmed with dark circles and tears from the exertion of being sick. He rests his cheek against the cool tile of the wall as Aziraphale reaches to flush the toilet, which he’s extremely grateful for. He’s never been good with vomit and seeing it while feeling this awful would likely make him sick again.
There’s a knock at the door, and Aziraphale opens it to see Newt and Anathema.
“Newt set up the bed for you two,” Anathema says. “I also found some peppermint and eucalyptus oils, which I’ve heard might help if he’s not too sensitive to scents.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale smiles. “I greatly appreciate what you’ve done for us. I’ll bring him to the room when he’s ready and see how he feels about the oils.”
Aziraphale smiles at the couple and then closes the door once again and turns to Crowley, whose eyes are squeezed shut against the lights and the pain in his head.
“My dear, Anathema and Newton have set up a bed for us,” Aziraphale whispers. “Do you think you’re ready to go lie down?”
Crowley makes a small “mhmm” noise of affirmation as he drapes his forearm over his eyes.
“Anathema also has some peppermint and eucalyptus oils, since those are supposed to be good for your headaches, if you want to try that?” Aziraphale asks.
“Hhnn...nooo...nauseous,” Crowley groans. “No smells.”
“Alright, love, no oils,” Aziraphale says softly, rubbing Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m going to pick you up, okay? Unless you’re not dizzy anymore?”
Crowley gave a slight nod, which thankfully Aziraphale understood and lifted Crowley up off the floor, muttering about needing to feed him more. Crowley was immensely grateful that he didn’t get more nauseous from the change in position, still haunted by one memory he had from the 1950’s when that had happened and ended very unfortunately for Aziraphale’s vest.
Crowley felt himself being deposited onto the bed and sighed at the cool comfort of the pillow. Aziraphale removed his shoes and socks before covering him with the blankets and tucking him in a bit. Crowley felt the bed dip as Aziraphale sat next to him and began to massage his head.
Crowley isn’t sure how long they stayed like that, with Aziraphale massaging his pounding head, uninterrupted except for one time Crowley needed to throw up in the trash can that had been placed next to the bed, before there was a soft knock at the door.
“Come in,” Aziraphale calls.
Anathema pokes her head in and asks, “Crowley, how are you feeling? Do you want any tea? I have some ginger tea, which I usually don’t have, but I was feeling sick the other day so Newt got me a box, and I know it’s good if you’re still feeling nauseous.”
Crowley smiles and asks, half jokingly and half hopefully, “Are you pregnant?”
Anathema laughs, “Hell no! So do you want some tea?”
Crowley considers it for a bit. He still has the awful headache, he doesn’t feel nauseous per se, but he doubts it would be a good idea to ingest anything while he’s still feeling pretty bad. He replies, “No thank you. Not right now at least.”
Anathema nods, “Okay. Well, Newt and I are going to bed now, but don’t hesitate to let us know if you need anything. Good night.”
Anathema closes the door behind her and Aziraphale removes his coat, vest, shirt, and pants before climbing into bed next to Crowley.
“Do you want me to hold you?” Aziraphale asks softly. Sometimes Crowley didn’t want to be held when he was feeling sick.
“Yes please,” Crowley’s voice cracks a little bit from the awful stabbing pain in his head. Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley, who has now started to shiver a bit, and begins to massage Crowley’s head with one hand and Crowley’s stomach with the other. Aziraphale smiles to himself when he feels Crowley relax a bit and he presses his cheek to Crowley’s back. The poor demon is shaking like a leaf, so Aziraphale miracles up a heating pad at a perfect temperature and places it on Crowley's stomach. Crowley curls up around the heating pad and nuzzles himself closer into Aziraphale's arms.
They lay together for several more minutes until Aziraphale feels Crowley relax some more and hears the demons breaths get softer and more even. Aziraphale was thankful that Crowley was asleep, since he usually felt better once he woke up after having a migraine. Aziraphale presses a soft kiss to Crowley's shoulder before falling asleep.
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Aziraphale wakes up when he feels Crowley lightly stirring next to him; he turns over to see Crowley smiling softly at him, and the angel smiles back at the love of his life.
"Good morning," Aziraphale says softly. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Crowley replies, almost whispering. "Still a bit dizzy and slightly queasy, but a lot better than yesterday."
"Are you alright to eat?" Aziraphale asks. "I can make you some tea and you can eat some saltines, and depending on how that settles, we can try some soup or toast if you'd like."
Crowley thinks for a second; his stomach still feels a bit uneasy, but he doesn't feel like he's going to throw up anytime soon and he is hungry. He nods and slowly moves to get up, wincing at how his head slightly swims with dizziness, but is thankful that it disappears after a few seconds. Aziraphale rushes over to his side of the bed to help Crowley up, despite the demon's protests that he is perfectly fine, I'm not gonna break, Angel. The two then go outside to get some breakfast.