neutral_omens | (no subject)

Date: August 22nd, 1999
Status: Public - Aziraphale & Co, anyone else.
Setting: Tadfield Infirmary
Summary: Aziraphale is messy when he's helpless.

“You’re weak,” was the first thing Aziraphale knew when he surfaced again. For a being who didn’t sleep all that often, Aziraphale appeared to be making up lost time. He seemed to sleep more than a cat would.

“Nnng,” he replied tersely. Even his fingernails felt heavy.

If he could see himself, he’d be shocked. He was lightly propped up against two pillows, with another one resting under his leg. The pillows were stark white – approximately the same colour of his skin, if his face was indeed not more ashen. High spots of colour burned in his cheeks, and his mouth looked spectacularly red. He looked downright ill. Less so than his incoherent state, of course, but still very ill.

His lips moved restlessly. “Water,” he croaked, and a glass was thrust against his mouth. Aziraphale downed it, slopping water down his chin. He was desperate.

He swallowed a great deal – more than single cup would ever hold – until he coughed and choked and dribbled water down his chin.

“Oh dear,” he murmured soundlessly, trying to swipe at the wet skin and finding his hands didn’t prefer to move that far. “Oh dear me,” he said again, his voice a little louder.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Archangels don't squeak, Raphael reminded himself. Especially at demons who had Sauntered Vaguely Downwards and had a thing for sunglasses and bookish angels.

He looked over at Aziraphale and winced. The others had suffered worse, but not by that much. But that was a subject for later, when he and Gabriel were alone.

"Let's take a look, shall we?" he said in his best bedside manner as he placed a hand on Aziraphale's forehead. "We'll get you feeling right as rain in hardly any time at all."

Watching another archangel walk over to Aziraphale's bed, Crowley scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. At Raphael's inane words, he rolled his eyes as well.

All of his body language was screaming, don't you dare hurt him, or you'll have a really pissed off demon to deal with.

Gabriel cast a glance over his shoulder at the livid demon even while Raphael was speaking. He certainly hoped the other archangel could do more for Aziraphale than he had been able to do himself, for he did not look forward to another flare in Crowley’s volatile temper.

Besides, helping Aziraphale would probably be the most anyone could do to help the demon, as well.

“It’s the fever I’m most concerned about,” he said quietly to Raphael. “His temperature hasn’t improved in days. They said something about a Dr. Alabaster tending to him when he first arrived. I suspect... well, I suspect that may have something to do with it.”

Aziraphale pulled his gaze away from Crowley's hands and yawned, focusing suddenly on the general conversation. "Dr. Alabaster checked for infection, I believe... Raphael, is that you? I'm sorry I'm so tired..." He yawned again, fretting at not being able to cover his mouth properly. "Oh! I'm so sorry, I'm very out of it... Do tell me if you see the good doctor, I haven't seen him since that check-up..."

His voice drifted off, and his eyelids slid shut.

"So very sorry to be such a bother..." he murmured, and fell asleep.

"Dr. Alabast - ah, of course." Raphael said evenly. He rather had an idea about who Dr. Alabaster was, but kept it to himself. There was no proof after all, and in any case, the damage had been done.

"Shh, dear." He gently brushed a strand of hair from Aziraphale's forehead. "Just relax."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He focused all of his strength and talent on breaking the insidious fever.

When Crowley saw Raphael's intimate little gesture, he had the sudden urge to rush over and rip the archangel's arms off.

Trying not to think about that impulse too much, and, after thinking about it anyway, blaming it solely on his worry over the angel's lingering fever and nothing else, he restrained himself and instead walked closer to Aziraphale's bed. Crowley laid his hand atop Aziraphale's, surreptitiously, and waited to see if Raphael's healing powers would work.

After a few minutes, Raphael lifted his hand, breathing heavily. His face was flushed and sweat glistened on his upper lip. "I've done what I could. The fever has broken, at least."

Crowley exhaled noiselessly in relief. Aziraphale was going to be all right. He knew the leg would heal with time but the fever had been quite dangerous and it was finally gone.

He removed his hand, and with a final warning glare to Raphael and Gabriel not to do anything stupid, Crowley returned to his bed, closed his eyes, and tried to hide his awkward jubilation behind a disinterested mask.