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.