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It's just their luck that they're twelve kilometres into the forest when the temperature drops from this side of comfortable to just a bit too cool for how humid it is. Crowley, of course, is not amused by this change, eyeing the darkening sky with apprehension. His classic sunglasses are tucked into his pocket, and his serpentine eyes (which Aziraphale loves so much) are on full display. Which also means that the subtle twitch of his left eye is also fully visible.
"Let's go back. Before the rain starts," he pleads weakly, needing the comfort but not wanting to break his promise of fifteen kilometres to Aziraphale.
"We're almost there, and then we'll head back. We won't melt, darling Crowley," Az assures him, his smile blindingly bright as he grabs Crowley's hand and practically drags him along. With a grumble and an aggrieved growl, the demon allows it.
Less than two minutes later, the first raindrops hit the leaves around them. One lands in Crowley's hair, but he doesn't notice at first, too busy watching his partner's face brighten at each new plant he encounters. Some would make fantastic additions to the bookshop, but it's not like either of them is willing to uproot them and risk transportation without a pot and extra soil. And of course, there are far too many to even consider fitting in Crowley's Bentley in the first place, even with the help of a few miracles.
Aziraphale notices the clamminess of the sweat on Crowley's palm before he notices the rain that has begun pouring down onto them. Although a perfectly human reaction to holding hands for extended periods of time - particularly with one you like (quite a lot, in Crowley's case) - sweaty palms are not a common occurrence for ethereal beings such as themselves, even in times of particular stress. Which goes to show exactly why they raise so much concern in the angel.
"Crowley, what is it? What's going on?"
"I'm sorry, angel. We can go fifteen kilometres another day. Please, can we head back to my - our - car now?"
Thunder rumbles overhead and the rain falls faster, now thoroughly soaking both angel and demon. Aziraphale extends his wings to partially cover both of them and Crowley subtly sidles closer, although his clothes still press too cold and too wet against his skin. Now, dearest reader, I must remind you of a very key detail. Crowley - despite his hidden warm heart - is still a cold-blooded creature at his core. It is much more difficult for him to regulate his temperature than many other demons and angels. He has had thousands of years to adjust to cold, but that doesn't mean he is comfortable. Quite the opposite, really. He hates it. The cold reminds him of Heaven, and when combined with the damp, there is a perfect reminder of Hell. In other words, Crowley had every reason to hate both the cold and the wet with every depth of his hidden heart. But the world didn't always revolve around that hate.
He was just usually alone when that happened. This time, though, he has his angel.
"Crowley, dear, I need you to talk to me. What's wrong?" Aziraphale presses, although he kindly begins retracing their steps at a slightly more hurried pace than they had taken before.
"Nothing, nothing. Just don't want to deal with wet shoes." A lie, but the sunglasses are back on and Crowley is moving so quickly that he overtakes Aziraphale within just a few seconds and the angel has to hurry to catch up again. Crowley's grip on his hand is nearing painful levels of pressure even for a divine being, but he refuses to complain, knowing his demon well enough to know when to really shut his mouth.
Crowley doesn't actually need to breathe. So why does his chest suddenly burn like he does and hasn't been? Why is his skin prickling uncomfortably, like a million needles from every direction digging into his skin all at once? Why is his angel's hand a comforting weight and all too much at the very same time? Why are is he shaking so violently that his legs threaten to give out without warning beneath him? And for someone's sake, why is he so damn COLD!?
He almost drags Az down into the mud beside him when his knees buckle and he curls in around himself, gasping for air that is more of a comfort than a necessity. Fresh air, not the sterile emptiness of heaven, or the stale moistness of Hell. He can smell the rain, not loads of blood and iron and rot and chemicals he doesn't want to put names to. The brush is wet beneath his hands, but it's real and it's fresh and-
He's still spiraling. He's still going down and down and-
"Crowley! I'm here! Just listen to me! Come back. Come back, my darling. Come back. It's alright. I'm here."
Aziraphale.
It takes a minute or an hour to register what isn't touching him anymore. The rain - although he can still hear it nearby - is no longer hammering his back and shoulders through his jacket. A massive white wing extends over him, stretched to its full extent so he has room to move under its protection. He doesn't move, though, his arms still wrapped around himself as though to keep his broken pieces so tightly together that he can pass as whole. He zones out, and comes back to Az's hand rubbing the curvature of his spine as water seeps into the knees and shins of his trousers. He's on his feet and staggering like a drunk man when he comes back again, his arm pulled across Aziraphale's shoulders and his whole body still protected by that familiar white wing. That's the familiar trend for a while, as the rain eases and strengthens again at random, never stopping for even a moment's respite.
They've made such so slow time coming back that night has long since fallen before the Bentley becomes visible through the trees, its well-maintained shine reflecting the starlight perfectly to act as a beacon to safe harbor. Crowley - despite his partner's efforts and near-constant babble - is still largely unresponsive, and puts up no fight when Aziraphale ushers him into the passenger's seat and takes the wheel himself. As soon as the doors are closed and the Bentley has helpfully put on some Queen in the background, his shoulders seem to relax, though. But his clothes - and the angel's - are still awfully soaked through.
Aziraphale considers him for a moment, then reaches into the backseat - between two of the smaller potted plants that they brought with them - and extracts a bundle of clothes. He has to pry the usual jacket and overshirt from Crowley's stiff limbs, and then wrangle those same arms back into the dry fleece he brought in case of emergency, zipping it up with little enough force that he won't accidentally hurt his demon more. He makes quick work of changing his own clothes into something warmer, then starts the car and makes sure they have both buckled their seatbelts.
Crowley doesn't even twitch during the whole ordeal, staring listlessly through the rain-streaked window beside him. On occasion, Aziraphale glances over at him, when he isn't focused intensely on the slick, curving road ahead. There's never a change. Not when they leave the forest behind for towns and fields. Not when they cross the M25 back into London. Not even when they pull to a stop outside their bookshop. His hands remain still and limp in his lap, his head bowed just enough that his dull yellow eyes stare absently at the soaked knees of his trousers.
Despite what he had been hoping during the drive, it's still pouring rain in London. Aziraphale leaves Crowley behind in the car, hurrying across the street and banging on the door to Nina's coffee shop. It's only a few minutes before the lights buzz to life and Nina appears behind the counter in her bathrobe, blinking herself awake. As soon as she sees him outside - once again soaked through - she hurries over to open the door, scuffing her slippers across the floor in her rush.
"What is it? What's happened?" she demands, pulling him inside by his shirt collar and pushing him into a chair to stand over him.
"I need your help. Crowley... something's wrong with Crowley, but I don't know what and he's not responding to anything and I'm honestly scared, Nina. I've never seen him like this and I don't know what to do, and I can't move him into the bookshop without getting him wetter again, and he gets worse when the rain hits him, and I don't have any umbrellas, and-"
"Mr. Fell, that's quite enough. No need to worry. I'll figure it out. You just wait here and warm up a bit. What do you say?"
"Yes, well... alright, I suppose."
It only takes a moment for Nina to come back with a large umbrella and proper shoes, although she hasn't taken the time to change out of her bathrobe before she drags Aziraphale upright again. Crowley hasn't moved yet by the time they make it to the Bentley, although he does seem to be muttering something under his breath, too quiet to make out the words. Aziraphale holds the umbrella steady over their heads, and Nina reaches in to drag Crowley's slight form upright, steadying him when his legs nearly give out beneath him. Somehow, the Bentley's door closes behind them and they inch toward the curb. They very nearly crash to the sidewalk when Crowley's unresponsive right foot catches on the step, but Nina narrowly manages to catch him and pull him after Aziraphale, whose face is paler than usual with anxiety. The bookshop doors open with a snap and a small miracle and Crowley seems to take his first full breath since he shut down, taking in the smell of old books and Aziraphale's cologne. Once he's deposited in a seat well away from a window, Nina takes the umbrella back from Aziraphale, who immediately runs upstairs to get changed and find a set of warmer, more comfortable trousers for Crowley.
He wastes no time on fashion, rooting through their drawers only for the necessities, which is how he ends up in purple sweatpants and a mustard-yellow cardigan with mismatched fluffy socks and no shoes. Unfortunately, by the time he returns, Crowley has fully curled into himself, and his joints have locked tight. Which means that - without forcing his knees and ankles to straighten - there was no getting him out of his wet clothing and into the new clothes that had been brought down for him. And Aziraphale is still too much of an angel to willingly put his partner through that sort of discomfort. Nina, on the other hand, has no such reservations, at least once she puts the umbrella out of the way and away from their prized books.
The only real reaction Crowley has during the process of changing his trousers is an uncharacteristic whine whenever Nina's cold fingers brush against his skin. Aziraphale stands beside him, rubbing his shoulders firmly in an attempt to bring him back. Long after the process is over and they've moved him to a sofa to lie down, Crowley is still mostly unresponsive, his head pillowed in Aziraphale's lap and his feet propped in Nina's. With a text to summon her, Maggie hurries across the street to join them, shedding her raincoat as soon as she's through the door. She settles just in front of Crowley, careful not to block the heat of the fireplace too much as she brushes his hair back from his face. There's a slow blink in response to that and she smiles at him fondly. His narrow pupils have blown wide, but contract slightly when she shifts positions.
"There you are. Come on back. We were worried about you," she whispers, leaning in almost conspiratorially until his shoulders tense and weakly draw back from her and into Aziraphale's stomach, at which point she is wise enough to move away again. Nina is careful not to move too much and risk startling him as he tips his head around in small circles.
"Crowley? You're safe. We're in our bookshop in central London. We're home, and we're warm, and we're dry," Aziraphale whispered, once again brushing through Crowley's hair.
There's the briefest of pauses, then "Cold," in a quiet, hoarse voice.
"That's alright. We have the fireplace going, and plenty of blankets, dear. We'll get you warmed up in no time at all. Quite alright," Az replies, giving Maggie a very pointed look to get her moving.
"Bright... smell," comes next, and even the angel can't decipher that one, exchanging a confused frown with Nina over Crowley's head.
"Do you mean the light's too bright?" Nina asks gently. Crowley's eyes slip shut and his chin dips toward his chest in something resembling a nod. Luckily, his sunglasses aren't far, and Aziraphale wastes no time gently positioning them. "What about the smell? Is it too strong?"
"Good," Crowley mumbles, turning his face more firmly into Aziraphale's leg and taking a deep breath, his tense back muscles relaxing so that he practically melts into the cushions and across his friends' laps. Maggie tucks an extra blanket around the demon and in no time whatsoever he's fully asleep, his breathing even and soft. The last thing he says before dropping off fully is "Sorry, angel."