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Chapter Text

Crowley rubbed at his unshaved face with a tired, calloused hand as he walked heavily up the stairs to his and Aziraphale's flat, tugging his matted hair out of the bun it had been in all day and shoving the tie into his pocket with a long-suffering sigh. 

He was exhausted, and absolutely drained. It had been a long, long day — there had been no rain for the past few days, a rare dry spell in London, so naturally, people were idiots who started fires very easily, which just meant a lot of hassle for him and his mates — and all he wanted to do was to curl up in bed and allow the feeling of home to whisk away the flames that still seemed to be licking at his aching feet.

Distractedly, Crowley fiddled in his pocket for his key when he reached the door to the flat, cursing colorfully when he realized he had left it in his locker at work. He rested his forehead against the door with another long sigh; Aziraphale was meant to be working until late today, for about another hour or so, probably longer. He took a step back, debating his ability right now to break through a door, but wound up knocking on it anyway in some fleeting hope that Aziraphale was in home after all — that his day had been slower than the firefighter's had been.

He hadn't been expecting it, of course — it was just one of those helpless things that exhausted people do when they've reached the end of their rope and have another thing tugging them back down — which was why when he heard familiar stumbling, hurried footsteps from the other side of the door, he straightened up with surprise. He was ready to unleash a snarky comment about something or other — the EMT always lectured him on holding onto his key better, and keeping track of time and scheduling better as well — but when Aziraphale opened the door, the words died on his tongue, and his face dropped.

The blonde's face was streaked with tears, red and puffy and swollen around his eyes. His mouth was dropped open as his breath hitched on little sobs, his entire body trembling as he leaned against the doorframe for support, the undershirt of his uniform still covering his chest, as if he had only thrown off his overshirt in his distress. When his gaze landed on Crowley, his entire face drained of color, and he gasped, throwing his hands over his mouth. 

"Anth—," He tried, his voice bordering on devastatingly ecstatic, even as his entire expression crumpled, his knees seeming to half-buckle as he slumped against the wall. "Oh, Anthony," he managed in a broken, choked sob, and then he buried his face in his hands and wept.

"Hey, hey, hey — angel, Aziraphale, what's wrong?" Crowley urged, his voice full of alarm but still gentle, with that sort of soothing softness that only his angel could draw out of him. He reached out his hands tentatively, not sure whether or not to touch, but Aziraphale all but lunged for them, squeezing down hard alongside each one of his desperate, wheezing breaths. Crowley drew in a sharp breath, mutated pupils widening with worry and distress.

"Hey — c'mere, angel, c'mere," the firefighter murmured, leading the EMT inside their flat. He kicked his shoes off and locked the door quickly behind them before helping Aziraphale to their bedroom and sitting him down on their bed, kneeling in front of him to take his face in his hands, looking deep into those anguished blue eyes with a twisting agony at his heart. He wasn't tired anymore; all he cared about now was taking care of Aziraphale, and figuring out what the hell was the matter so that he could do his damnedest to fix it.

Aziraphale was yet to stop crying — sobbing, really, so hard that he wasn't even able to speak — and Crowley just kept brushing away his tears with slender, shaking fingers, his hands growing wet with salt. "What's wrong?" He asked helplessly, and the blonde shook his head, squeezing down on the hand of Crowley's that he still held as he attempted to speak, his words garbled and stumbling.

"The — the radio, in the — in the ambulance — it said that there, that — that there was a fire, in the — right near your st-station," he cried, looking so very distraught, so very torn apart; "and th-that someone — that someone died, and — and they said it was a r-redhead —,"

"Oh, angel," Crowley breathed out, feeling his heart break a little in his chest as he closed his eyes for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek hard. Fuck, he thought helplessly. No wonder Aziraphale was so torn apart. They were all they had, really; neither of them had families, and between Aziraphale's anxiety and Crowley's standoffish people problems, neither of them had it easy making friends. This relationship was easily the best thing either of them had, the best thing either of them had ever had. No wonder Aziraphale was distraught. 

"I tried to c-call you, but — but you didn't ans—," Aziraphale was full-on sobbing again, wrecked and devastated, tears pouring down his face, which was still pale white even despite the flush high in his cheekbones from the crying. "Oh, Anthony," he wept; "I thought you were gone." 

Crowley felt frozen, his breath caught in his throat and his own face drained of color. He floundered for a moment, and then wordlessly leaned to take Aziraphale fully back in his arms, pausing only for a moment to swear under his breath when he realized how much he smelt of smoke; he tore off his shirt almost frantically, tossing it to the ground, and wrapped Aziraphale in an embrace. He lay him carefully against the pillows and moved down beside him, his heart breaking a little more as the angel practically fell into him, heaving with sobs but no more tears, run entirely dry with the salt stains on his cheeks.

"We've barely had any time!" He wailed, sounding so broken that it hurt. "It's not fair!" 

"Angel, angel, shh, breathe," Crowley murmured, surprisingly gentle for someone usually so brash — but that was just how he was when his angel needed him. "You're right. It wouldn't be fair. But it's okay, see? I'm here. I'm here, Aziraphale." He took one of the blonde's trembling hands in his own once more, and brought it to his wrist, over his thrumming pulse.

"Feel that?" He asked gently, and Aziraphale nodded tentatively, his panicked breaths beginning to slow. He moved the EMT's hand to over his heart, pressing down enough to feel the vibrations through Aziraphale's hand. "How about that?" Another nod, more sure this time.

"You see?" He whispered into Aziraphale's soft, curly blonde hair, kissing the top of his head gently and then his forehead, moving down to nuzzle at his neck. "Feel me, there? I'm here, and I'm okay, angel."

"You — you weren't responding," Aziraphale breathed out, shaky and helpless-sounding. "I — I w-went home, left early, because — I couldn't bear it, my dear, I was no use — and I t-tried to call you from the home phone, even, but you still — you weren't —," He cut himself off, burying his face in Crowley's shoulder, clearly biting back more sobs. 

Crowley had learned, over his time with his partner, with his angel, that he had a lot of issues with abandonment, from family issues to past shitty partners to things in general falling apart around him. To losing people, especially in this line of work. It was, unfortunately, something that happened far too often; something that you were never prepared for, and never would be, not even after the fact.

Crowley was careful to tread lightly, because of how delicate of a situation this was, and how much easier he could make it worse. Aziraphale was not a hysterical, panicky person; sure, he had anxiety, but he managed it. So in breakdowns like this, especially for the reasons behind it, Crowley was sure to do his absolute best to help and not further harm; to show his angel that he was loved, that he was safe, and that so was Crowley.

"I didn't have my phone, love," he told him gently, stroking a hand through his soft blonde curls. "I left it in my locker at the station, with my key; s'why I knocked, I forgot it. Typical me, eh? And the phone's been ringing nonstop for fires all day at the station; yours wouldn't've gone through." He pressed a kiss along Aziraphale's soft jaw, closing his eyes for a moment. 

"I am so sorry, though, Aziraphale," he said in a quiet, murmuring voice. "I do know what fire you mean, it was near us, just down the street; but I wasn't even at it, I was somewhere else already." He hadn't even known there had been a line-of-duty death that day; it struck grief at his heart, but for now, he pushed it away. Aziraphale needed him right now; he could grieve later, offer condolences to others later, and he knew that then, Aziraphale would be the one to comfort him. For now, though, he was glad for the shoe to be on the other foot.

"I'm okay. See?" He spread out his hands for a moment, wriggling his fingers. "Not even a scratch on me."

Aziraphale sniffled and nodded, running his hands tentatively over the burn scars on Crowley's shoulders, rubbing the pads of his fingers along the whorls of deformed, reddened skin that had healed over time; mapping out the curves and crevices of Crowley's body that he had already memorized, as if ensuring that this truly was him, that he truly was here. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I was just — so, so s-scared." He forced a laugh, wiping at his face. "It's — it's silly."

"No," Crowley responded immediately, kind but firm. "Not at all, angel. Not silly. I think I'd have to be offended if you weren't worried," he teased, which thankfully drew the smallest of smiles from his angel. He paused, then, and took in a deep breath, biting his lip. "I'm sorry," he murmured again, with another kiss to his jaw, comforting and grounding. "I'm so sorry, love. It must have been terrifying."

"It was," Aziraphale breathed out, petting through Crowley's hair with a badly trembling hand. His heart was still racing against the firefighter's shoulder, and his hand was still pressed against Crowley's heart, digging ever-so-lightly into his chest with his nails, allowing it to ground him just as much as the redhead's lips did against his skin. "It was unbearably — well, unbearable."

"I'm here now," Crowley whispered, the slivers of his heart fracturing impossibly more at the wobble in the blonde's voice. "I'm here, angel. S'just you and me, yeah?"

"Yes," Aziraphale whispered in return, and Crowley could tell from his tone that he had begun to cry once more; he only held him tighter, and felt Aziraphale do the same. He would hold him for as long as he needed; even if the world ended around them, he would hold him through it. 

"Oh, Anthony," the blonde rasped out, his voice so very relieved, as if, at long last, Crowley had gotten through to him that he was okay. "Oh, Anthony. I love you so, my darling. So very much." Aziraphale pulled away just slightly for a moment, his eyes round and anxious, still puffy from crying. "You know it, don't you?" He questioned, sounding genuinely worried. "How much I love you?"

"Don't think I could ever forget," Crowley murmured, achingly happy for even a single moment, "I love you, too, my angel." Pressing another kiss to his soft jaw, Crowley lowered his hand to press over Aziraphale's on his heart, curling their fingers together, intertwining their hands.

"Feel me," he whispered again, closing his eyes, tipping his head into the crease of Aziraphale's neck. "I'm here. I'm alive. I'm okay. I'm here, and I love you."

"Oh, God, you're okay," Aziraphale whimpered, almost as in a prayer, his voice breaking for the last time that night before it began to heal. He squeezed his eyes shut, and buried himself impossibly further in Crowley's arms, kissing the top of his head furiously and pressing his face into his scarred shoulder, leaving light presses of his mouth over the old burns, too. "Oh, God . . . thank you."

It seemed that even he did not know whom he was thanking; but even so, Crowley only held him tighter. He held him, and he kissed him, and he comforted him, and they stayed that way till morning, holding one another. Crowley protecting his angel from any and all harm; Aziraphale finding peace in knowing that his beloved love was right there with him.

It was still terrifying; the thought that one day, Aziraphale could get one of those calls, and it could be true. But . . . Crowley could get that call, too. Life is not something to be taken lightly, because of how easily it can be taken away. Even more easily when, like Crowley, you put yourself in the line of it willingly, to save others.

But even through that terror, there was also the joy of living; at peace and at home with the time that they did have together. The joy of having hope; of having love. The joy of having one another, in whatever time that they did have together.

And for now, that was enough; and they were happy and content to lie in each others' arms, surrounded by their love, comforting one another till morning dawn.

Chapter Text

Psychogenic fevers.

When the body's temperature rises without any illness or infection, often due to emotional stress or psychological factors, causing one to feel that they have a fever even though the body is not actually fighting off any germs. Often occur in response to intense grief or perceived loss, due to emotional distress triggering a rise in body temperature without any physical cause, sort of like the body's way of expressing emotional pain through a fever, even though there's no infection present.

That was all what Crowley had learned from his EMT partner over the past day, when Aziraphale had first begun to fall seemingly ill to an absolutely horrid fever.

Crowley had very nearly cursed God at their luck — first, an abominable scare like the one Aziraphale had had, and now an illness, really?, what had they even done to piss Her off so bad — but Aziraphale had assured him through sniffles and coughs that the two things were more connected than he may think, and had brought Crowley's impending blasphemy and sacrilege down to the healthy typical amount that he engaged in.

As it were, the firefighter — thankfully, he had the day off, and Aziraphale was taking a brief stress sabbatical at Crowley's pleading urging; he had called his old therapist, and was going to have a call with him the next day, once he was feeling up to it, to process through the awful fright he had had — was currently lying sprawled across their shared bed and holding a cold pack to Aziraphale's boiling forehead, listening with one ear for the kettle as he murmured softly to him. 

"How are you feeling, love?" He had ducked out for a few moments to put the kettle on, and to make the call to said therapist. 

"The same, I'm afraid," Aziraphale croaked out, ever prim and proper, even when miserably ill — or at least, the picture of it. He shifted uncomfortably under the covers, shivering a little and tugging his nightclothes further around himself, squinting at the television across the room, where Great British Bake-Off was playing on mute. 

"Thank you, my dear," he added softly, voice hoarse, as Crowley wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dry towel before laying the cold pack down, prompting the blonde to lean back and close his eyes. "Whatever would I do without you?"

"You wouldn't be like this, tha'ss for sure," Crowley muttered with bitterness aimed only at himself, guilt squirming in the pit of his stomach. "M'real sorry, angel," he added remorsefully, not for the first time that day; he had been a pool of apologies since he had woken up without Aziraphale in his arms only to find the EMT hunched over the sink, splashing cold water on his face and muttering about getting to work, all while his face had been flushed a hideously bright red and his eyebags had been so terrible, it was as if a child had scribbled with black marker underneath his piercing blue eyes. "I'm really —,"

"Not your fault, darling," Aziraphale interrupted, also not for the first time that day, but still just as patiently. He sniffled loudly, wiping at his face, and then smiled blearily as Crowley tenderly helped him to wipe his nose with a tissue, tossing it to the bin after with a light peck of a kiss to the tip of the blonde's nose.

"Oh, my dear!" Aziraphale laughed, rasping but happy. "You're so good to me. So kind." He reached up a trembling, flushed hand, cupping Crowley's cheek, and the firefighter forgot to defend his honor against such horrendous claims as he melted into his touch, even as heated and clammy as it was.

"This is not your fault," Aziraphale whispered again, just as gentle, just as kind. "Yes, dearest?"

Crowley, despite himself, opened his mouth to argue — his guilt over leaving his phone and not answering Aziraphale when his angel had needed him the most had grown considerably since the EMT's first sneeze that morning as Crowley had coaxed him back to bed — but the whistling of the kettle interrupted him. He gave Aziraphale a quick kiss to the forehead before ducking out of their bedroom and hurrying to make his sick partner tea with shaky hands, somehow managing to piece together a rattling cup of Earl Grey; Aziraphale's favorite.

Crowley bit his already bruised lip as he traipsed back across the flat and paused to linger in the doorway to their bedroom, watching Aziraphale to struggle to sit up against the pillows, guilt swelling once more in his chest. The blonde caught his eye and sighed, relaxing once more with a slight shake of his head, fond but exasperated.

"Don't give me that look, love." Aziraphale huffed, but he was smiling, and he reached out a hand, a welcoming gesture that had Crowley melting. "Come."

Crowley did, head slightly bowed as he slid into bed beside Aziraphale, shifting his position to be more comfortable and tucking his long hair behind his ear with one hand. He cradled the teacup carefully before lifting it to Aziraphale's lips; the blonde blew on it, brows furrowed with concentration, and then took a tiny sip. His expression smoothed over to one of pure bliss as he drank, and Crowley couldn't help but smile, melting a little more.

However, the angel's moment of soothed calm was interrupted quite rudely as he was wracked with a sudden feverish, full-body shudder that had him coughing and wheezing, and Crowley pulled away quickly only to place down the tea and smooth the cold pack back over Aziraphale's forehead even as the EMT, who was likely freezing, whimpered in protest.

"Breathe, Aziraphale, just breathe," Crowley urged, reminded of how they had first really met that day at the burning church, when the shoe had really been on the other foot. Aziraphale did, exaggerated and hitched, but he did all the same, until he had managed to calm, assisted by Crowley's grounding presence and the press of the coldness against his flushed, boiling face.

art by tanpopomugishu!

"You just can't catch a break, can you, love?" Crowley murmured sympathetically, grief and guilt twisting at his heart. Aziraphale, sniffling and coughing lightly, rolled his bleary eyes the best he could.

"I'm perfectly alright, dear," he reassured, for what must've been the thousandth time, and yet, he was still ever so patient. "As I told you, my darling Anthony; it is simply stress fever. Psychogenic, yes? It happens from time to time and will pass on its own soon, and I speak to Maggie tomorrow, you set that up yourself; all is well."