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The day was typical of British winter - grey, windy, and misting with an annoying drizzle that didn't quite want to commit to proper rain. Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and pulled his elbows in close, trying to curl up as much as was physically possible while still being able to walk upright. There was a sudden chill gust and he had to dodge an unruly umbrella attempting to make a bid for freedom from its owner's grasp. The cold wind stuck to him like wet paper as he glared furiously at the rain-slick pavement, trying his level best to ignore how stiff his joints were becoming. Someone help him, how he hated this time of year.
A black cab sped past, interrupting his self-pitying train of thought with a splash of freezing water from a puddle on the road. It drenched his lower half right the way through. Crowley swore in a language that hadn't been heard by human ears in a millennium or so, and - with a bit of careful concentration - made certain that the driver would be late for every conceivable occasion for the next five years. Muttering angrily to himself, he rounded a corner and blustered into the familiar comfort of the bookshop, startling the curly-haired angel fussing over a shelf in the corner.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "Oh you poor thing, you look absolutely wretched."
"Thanks," Crowley said through his teeth. He stormed over to the back room - or at least, he tried. The squelching of his soaked feet was not particularly conducive to a dramatic exit.
"I'm sorry, my dear," Aziraphale's voice said behind him. "I didn't mean anything by it, I was just concerned. Here, allow me."
There was a snap of fingers, and the air around Crowley rippled with angelic power, like the faintest caress of sunlight. Just like that, he was completely dry. He turned around to look at Aziraphale, who was standing a few paces away, smiling hopefully. He wanted to feel better, but something about the act of kindness, about the fondness pouring out of Aziraphale's expression, rubbed against him painfully. He took a breath to quell the momentary anger that had flared up in his chest, and huffed it out forcefully.
"I'm going to have a lie down."
"Alright," Aziraphale replied. "Can I get you anything? A hot drink, perhaps?"
Aziraphale was fiddling nervously with his hands now, and it made Crowley's heart twist uncomfortably. It wasn’t the angel’s fault he was in agony. He started heading towards the back room again.
"M'fine."
The old sofa in the back of the shop welcomed him into its plush embrace as he flopped into it face first. Aziraphale had not followed him, and from the sound of it, had gone back to rummaging through whatever collection of books had previously caught his attention. He had probably decided to give Crowley some space, and that made his stomach churn with guilt.
The cold was still clinging to his body, seeping into his bones and biting at his fingers and toes. It drained all the energy out of him, leaving nothing but a hollow sadness. Winter always got to him, turned his body into a heavy aching lump, made him need to seek out warmth. A blunt reminder of his true self. No matter how much had changed in the last few months - saving the world, tricking Heaven and Hell, being free to love, really unabashedly bloody love Aziraphale - he couldn't escape what he really was. What he always would be.
He sighed heavily, his eyelids drooping shut. All his thoughts started turning hazy, and he was struggling to remember what he was even upset about anymore. Trying to think about it was like trying to run through molasses. Probably best not to think anymore, then... His body was desperate to drift into nothingness, to escape the dull aching pain by retreating into oblivion. Crowley relented, and let himself sink into a deep sleep.
It was some time later - he wasn't sure how much later - that the murmur of a voice pierced through the darkness. It took a tremendous amount of effort to make his brain turn the sound into coherent words.
"--ley? Crowley, I wondered if you might want to go somewhere for dinner."
A gentle hand cradled his face. His every instinct wanted to coil around it, soak up every ounce of warmth radiating from the soft skin, but it immediately withdrew, leaving him bereft.
"Goodness, you're like a block of ice. Darling, are you alright? Crowley?"
He wanted to say something, but his body had turned to stone. The hand returned to his cheek and he was desperate for that warmth to envelope him completely.
"Crowley? Oh my dear, please talk to me…"
He tried to hold onto the voice but it was like grasping at smoke. It faded away, and Crowley slipped back over the precipice into unconsciousness.
Everything was black for a long while.
After a time, the darkness began to dissolve away. He was floating up from the depths of the ocean, caught by a gentle upwelling. The world became lighter and lighter until he finally, silently, broke through the surface. He was somewhere quiet, and there was a very pleasant warmth on his stomach. The faint noise of traffic hung in the air and, occasionally, he could hear a rustling at his side. As his mind unfogged, he began registering other sensations. He was surrounded by something soft. Cushions - but not just under his head, they'd been wedged all around him. There was a pile of blankets on top of him. Most of all, an overwhelming feeling of tranquility permeated his entire being.
At last, he groggily opened his eyes. It was brighter than usual - no sunglasses, then. He was staring at the familiar, slightly damp-stained, ceiling of the bedroom above the bookshop. With great effort, he turned his head slightly to the side to find Aziraphale sitting next to him on the bed, feet up and reading a book. The dim light of a lamp caught the outline of his face, and Crowley longed to reach out a hand and stroke it.
"Azzurraf?"
He scowled at his mouth's attempt at talking. Aziraphale's head snapped towards him and he slammed his book shut.
"Crowley," he breathed. He discarded the book carelessly (much to Crowley's surprise) and cupped those soft wonderful hands around his face. "Oh, you're awake, thank goodness."
He pressed a kiss into his forehead and sighed.
"I wasn't sure if you were coming back to me," he said into his auburn locks.
Crowley tried to form a coherent thought but it felt like his head was stuffed with cotton wool.
"Whuh?" he asked eloquently.
Aziraphale pulled back to look at him, his eyes twinkling with wetness.
"I found you completely lifeless on the sofa, cold as anything. And nothing seemed to rouse you, I had no clue what had happened to you."
The pain in Aziraphale's voice tugged at something in Crowley's chest. With a groan, he tried to prop himself up, but his limbs evidently had other plans. Aziraphale noticed his floundering, and hooked a hand under his shoulder to help him sit up slightly. He blinked once, twice, trying to banish the cloudiness from his mind. The warmth on his stomach slid down to his side, and he was vaguely aware that it was in fact a hot water bottle.
"How… long was I…" He forced his mouth to wrap around the words.
"Four days," Aziraphale said, watching him like he might shatter at any moment.
Crowley winced. That had been careless... he hadn't been knocked out that hard in a long time.
"Ah… sorry, angel."
" Sorry? " Aziraphale repeated, incredulous. "What on Earth are you apologising for? Crowley, what happened?"
He turned his head away from him, unable to face the concerned expression in the angel's stormy blue eyes.
"I'm a snake, Aziraphale," he said with more venom than he'd really intended. "Cold gets to me."
"Oh," came the reply. "Why haven't I ever seen you this way before?"
"Because," Crowley sighed, "usually I'm better about keeping warm, and usually I…" The words stuck in his mouth, and he wasn't sure if it was his body or his nerves failing him. "Usually I deal with it myself."
Aziraphale reached out and squeezed his upper arm.
"But you don't have to deal with it by yourself anymore. Why wouldn't you tell me about this? I could have made sure you kept yourself warm."
"Didn't want to be any trouble," Crowley mumbled.
"My dear, it's no trouble to make accommodations for you. I want to share these things, you're an important part of my life."
Crowley screwed up his face and flopped over onto his side.
"I just… I would rather you not see those parts of me," he said, voice muffled into the cushions. "I'm afraid you'll remember what I am and decide that… you don't love me anymore."
Aziraphale was silent for a moment. Just as Crowley was starting to wish he was catatonic again, the angel laid himself down, head resting inches from his.
"My dear Crowley," he said with so much fondness that Crowley could feel his heart breaking open. "I've known what you are for thousands of years now. You are a kind soul with a good heart and an extraordinary mind. No amount of yellow eyes, or forked tongues, or cold-blooded tendencies will ever convince me otherwise." He reached out and ran the back of his hand on the demon's cheek. "Oh Crowley, please don't think that I love you in spite of what you are, that's simply not true."
Crowley buried his face deeper into the cushions as tears prickled his eyes. Aziraphale tangled his fingers through his hair, gently scratching the back of his head with manicured nails.
"Crowley?"
"Mmmph."
"Crowley, look at me please."
He slowly turned his head and Aziraphale's beaming face came into view. It made his insides turn into a puddle.
"I love you, all of you."
A small fragile smile form on Crowley's features.
"Guess there's no getting rid of you now, hm?"
Aziraphale laughed and it was like spring sunshine dispelling the rain.
"I'm afraid not, dear."
Crowley let Aziraphale gather him up into his arms, and huddled into the angel's soft frame.
"You know," Crowley said, smiling into Aziraphale's waistcoat. "Most effective way to warm up is sharing body heat."
"Is that so?"
A quick miracle replaced Aziraphale's clothes with soft terrycloth tartan pyjamas, and after a bit of shuffling and rearranging of cushions, he'd joined Crowley underneath the pile of blankets. The two of them cuddled up together, Aziraphale entwining his arms about Crowley's waist, and Crowley nestling his face in the crook of Aziraphale's neck.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much," Crowley said, soaking up the warmth from the angel's skin.
"In all seriousness, though, what can I do to ensure you don't end up like that again?"
Crowley sighed contentedly, feeling sleep start to curl around the edges of his consciousness.
"Got a heat lamp in m'flat. Sit under that for a bit."
"Oh!" Aziraphale said. "Well, perhaps we could get one for the bookshop, we could keep it in the back room. Maybe next to the sofa."
"Mmm," Crowley murmured sleepily.
"I could take up knitting."
Crowley opened an eye.
"Not necessary."
"Oh but I could make you a hat! And a scarf."
"No."
"And a lovely pullover!"
"Please stop."
Aziraphale gently stroked at Crowley's side with his thumb, and he melted further into the angel's chest.
"I could make one for myself, and then we'd match."
"Angel, I swear on my life I will take you that Michelin star restaurant you've been blathering on about for months, if you just shut up right now ."
That, of course, only had the effect of starting Aziraphale on a rambling tangent about haute cuisine. Crowley let his eyes fall shut again, listening to the steady beat of the angel's heart as he lay against his chest. As he drifted off to a much more pleasant sleep, cocooned in the warm embrace, he supposed they might not need a heat lamp after all.