Out of Order - Good Omens (Aziraphale/Crowley, M)

[Vinda]

This is my first time posting a story, so here we go!

For context, Aziraphale and Crowley are an angel and demon respectively. They have a 6000 year long, slow burn relationship/friendship/love story, and both live in London. In the Good Omens TV show, Aziraphale is played by Michael Sheen, and Crowley is played by David Tennant. 

Rereading this, there's not much sneezing in this first part, but I am planning on writing more soon. Hope you enjoy! 

Out of Order (Part 1)

Aziraphale shivers as he walks down Greek Street. He begins to cross the road but is stopped by the sound of loud honking from an approaching car. The angel narrowly avoids being hit by the speeding vehicle, but the car succeeds at throwing cold water onto his trousers. 

Aziraphale lets out a soft cry as dirty water hits his well-loved trousers. Almost as if in response, the angel is promptly jostled about on the pavement by a strong gust of wind. His tartan umbrella rattles with irritation. 

"Oh, but I'm such a mess!” the angel complains to himself as he continues on his way home. “My trousers are completely soaked. And the water is dripping down my ankles onto my socks. How miserable of a day.” 

Continuing to grumble internally, the angel hurries to the safety of his bookshop. Or, attempts to hurry. He can't help but notice that his pace seems to be a bit more... sedate than usual. Motivated as he is to get in from the horrid weather, it seems to take the drenched angel an age to reach his own doorstep. 

As Aziraphale finally enters the bookshop, the first thing he notices is the cozy warmth. "Oh, thank goodness," he says a bit more cheerily to himself.  

With the door closed behind him and the shades pulled, he promptly indulges in a tiny miracle. Following a quick, pulling gesture, the angel is suddenly, miraculously dry. The miracle, however, seems to take more effort than usual. Despite the dry clothes, his corporation still feels cold and tired. 

Aziraphale stands at the front of the bookshop for a dazed moment, shivering. Why does he feel so cold, so tired? Even his teeth ache faintly. 

The angel gives himself a quick mental shake and focuses on moving to find a nice book to read. No reason to dwell on that which has already been remedied. 

A moment later, Aziraphale wiggles happily into the familiar embrace of his armchair and flips to the beginning of Pride and Prejudice -- an old favorite of his and just the thing to soothe his corporation’s unhappy memories of the wet and cold outside. He begins to read and is quickly distracted by the familiar story... until a sudden sneeze breaks his concentration. 

Hr'rrsshoo!

"Eep!" Aziraphale squeaks, startled by his own sneeze and the volume of it. How very embarrassing. He reaches for his pocket handkerchief, relieved to note that none of the mess from the sneeze made its way onto his book. 

As he politely blows his nose, the angel thinks to himself: “Oh, dear. And what's this? My head feels oddly heavy, as though it's about to hurt. And these chills... I still feel cold all over my body."

He glances around the room out of habit, checking that no one is watching him. The movement makes his head start to ache. Then, he lethargically stands up from his armchair and quietly grabs the blue blanket off the back of the sofa. 

The blanket is thick and well-made; once Aziraphale wraps himself in it, it almost feels as though he’s snuggled up in a cloud. Despite the coziness of it all, the angel finds that he is still very cold. Even from the comfort of his armchair, he can’t seem to focus on his book. Instead, he’s caught up in the sensation of his uncomfortably stuffy nose and his likely feverish limbs. 

"So many things are out of order,” he thinks groggily. “So many things are... wrong."

Without deciding to, the angel nods off, book falling gently onto his slumped body. As he sleeps, he makes little snuffling noises, clearly uncomfortable and very congested. The fever that’s been cooking in his system grows, turning his skin pale and clammy. Instead of happily reading, Aziraphale spends the night shivering beneath a blanket. 

[webmeistro]

Nice! There isn't nearly enough Good Omens fanfic.

[Vinda]

Quote

Nice! There isn't nearly enough Good Omens fanfic.

Thank you so much for reading and commenting! 

Out of Order (Part 2) 

The next morning, the door of the bookshop swings open with a bang. It admits a cold winter draft that causes Aziraphale to futilely snuggle further into his blanket. Crowley sweeps through the doorway excitedly. 

Aziraphale doesn't fully wake to acknowledge the blast of cold air. The fever has left the angel in a daze, so much so that he doesn't think to question the source of the sudden draft. He's so tired that all he feels capable of doing is shivering. 

"Angel!" Crowley calls, oblivious to the state that Aziraphale is currently in. "Ready for brunch?" 

The sound of Crowley’s familiar voice successfully rouses Aziraphale, but he fails to form a proper response. The angel’s eyes seem to be struggling to focus, and breathing in only launches a series of barking coughs that cause his nose to begin to run. 

"Angel?" Crowley calls again, striding further into the bookshop to look for Aziraphale. When he catches sight of him, the demon stops short. 

"What?" he begins to ask, baffled by the sight Aziraphale makes. 

Aziraphale is an absolute mess. His lips are chapped, and his skin is somehow shades paler than usual. There are dark bags underneath his eyes, and even breathing seems to be a chore for the poor angel. His limbs are completely limp, all signs of his prim posture vanished, and when he makes a second attempt to answer Crowley, his teeth begin to chatter. 

"Aziraphale!" Crowley shouts, rushing to the angel's side. He stops just short of touching his friend, hands fluttering anxiously above the blue blanket. "What the Heaven happened to you?" 

The angel can barely muster the energy to process Crowley’s question. The fever is so strong that it's all he can do to keep his eyes open and try to dissuade his body from shivering even more violently than it already is. 

"How long was I asleep for...?" he slurs. He tries to lick his sore, chapped lips, but it only results in a dry, cracking pain. His vision begins to blur. "I—I think I'm... sick."

Crowley's panic grows. He knows that it is unusual for the angel to sleep, and he can’t imagine his friend ever voluntarily adopting such a disheveled state. 

"Sick?" Crowley asks. "You're an angel! How?"

Aziraphale is too far gone to think about the question deeply; he simply doesn't have the energy. All he can think about is how cold and tired his corporation is and how strange the world looks when his vision refuses to focus. 

"So... tired..." he answers nonsensically, eyes slipping shut. As he leans his head back to rest, he slumps off in his chair, completely unconscious but for the occasional, quiet whimper.

"Okay," Crowley says, more to himself than to the abruptly sleeping angel. "Okay, so I'm going to touch you." He reaches out hesitantly, half expecting the angel to wake up in order to pull away. "Got to, got to check your temperature." He touches Aziraphale's forehead gently.

Even as Crowley touches him, the angel slumps even farther in his chair. His forehead is sweaty and hot beneath Crowley’s hand. 

"It's okay," Crowley murmurs softly, still extremely panicked. He miracles a cool cloth and begins to wash Aziraphale's face. 

Without waking, the angel sneezes weakly. 

Hrrrreshh!

The sneeze mists Crowley with snot, but the idea of moving further away or leaving doesn’t even cross the demon’s mind. Instead, he matter-of-factly snaps away the mess, focused only on trying to give his angel a bit of comfort. 

On his end, Aziraphale isn’t even cognizant of the dear demon’s presence, his body entirely taken over by the fever and its symptoms. As he sneezes again and again—drenching both himself and his body with mucus—his fever continues to muddle his faculties. 

Hr'rrsshoo! hh'RRSHoo! Heh'RRSSCHoo!

The angel is too tired and ill to think of wiping his nose or containing his increasingly thick phlegm. It's all... so... cold... and... dizzy.

Aziraphale does not resurface from his confusing, feverish dreams until the next morning. He is greeted by the sight of his armchair miracled to the size of a small bed and his lovely demon slumped across the nearby sofa. His corporation feels tired, but much better than yesterday. Not as chilled. 

Watching Crowley carefully, he sniffs experimentally, trying to check for congestion without waking up his friend. The sniff is unpleasant, but not nearly as miserable as it would have been the day before. His sinuses are still tender and congested, but not overflowing. Beneath his own fingers, the skin of his cheek feels perhaps a touch warm, but not nearly as sweaty. 

HETCH-choo!

A loud sneeze echoes through the room, breaking the silence and waking the lightly dozing demon. However, this sneeze doesn’t originate from Aziraphale's nose. Instead, it comes from Crowley’s.

[Vinda]

Out of Order (Part 3)

Aziraphale starts a little at the noise, which only reminds his head to ache. As soon as he focuses more closely on Crowley’s appearance, he notices that the demon doesn’t look well at all. His eyes are red-rimmed and a bit glassy, and his limbs are sprawled in a slightly unusual configuration, one which hints at true fatigue. 

“Dear Lord,” the angel sighs a bit hoarsely. Then, projecting more clearly, he asks, “Crowley, are you feeling… ill?” 

"Ngk," Crowley responds drowsily with a rare, slow blink. Then, his mind seems to catch up to the sight of Aziraphale properly awake. 

"Angel!" the demon says happily, then coughs roughly into his own shoulder. He continues in a bit quieter of a voice. "How are you feeling?" 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and counters, "I believe I inquired first, my dear." Notwithstanding his words, there's no mistaking the concern in his voice. 

His fingers start to reach for the demon's forehead, an instinctive expression of his sincere care. When Crowley allows the nice gesture without comment or misdirection, he completes the movement, unsurprised to find that the demon’s skin feels hot beneath his hand. 

"Is this... because of me?" the angel frets reflexively. 

In response to the angel’s worried tone, Crowley sways back from Aziraphale’s touch, hand instinctively searching for his sunglasses. "'Course not," he disagrees unconvincingly. "Nothing wrong with my corporation for you to be responsible for." He continues to sway, a bit dizzily. "Right as rain, me." 

Aziraphale returns his fingers to the demon’s face, this time gently framing his cheeks. "Crowley, I can feel your fever," he murmurs. His lips twist into a soft, concerned smile that only further emphasizes how exhausted he still looks. "You ought to lie down."

"Gah," Crowley groans. "Nah, 's nothing. Just because, because you had a fever. Makes everything feel hot now." 

The demon sneezes messily, undermining his own argument. 

Ekh-CHOO!

"Crowley," Aziraphale chides, his voice low and quiet. "Don’t be daft." 

The angel is a touch out of practice with exercising authority, but that does not mean he is incapable of it. "You're clearly ill. Here." He takes Crowley's hand in his and, with a little bit of a tug, leads the demon to the  armchair bed.

The demon obeys much more quietly than he ever would if he was feeling well, only beginning to protest when Aziraphale lets go of his hand. 

"Shhh," Aziraphale reassures the demon, as he pulls the blankets over both of them. "Don't worry, my dear. You made sure this armchair was plenty big for the both of us." 

The only response from Crowley is a bit of stuffy snuffling. 

Aziraphale smiles a bit at the irrational cuteness of the sound and tucks the blankets more firmly over the sleeping demon. "Good night," he breathes, carefully snuggling up next to the demon’s fevered form before allowing himself to slip into a peaceful slumber. 

A few hours later, Crowley is forced back to wakefulness by a series of hacking coughs. He groans, struggling to catch his own breath. His throat burns painfully. 

Aziraphale stirs a bit, his lips pulling into a thin line as he wakes. “Crowley?” he asks muzzily. “Are you all right?” 

His gaze sharpens at the lack of an immediate response, immediately taking in the demon’s raspy, slightly ragged breathing. “What’s wrong, my dear?” 

"Nothing," Crowley denies, though it's wholly unconvincing given the sharp sneeze that follows. 

Htttch!

Aziraphale politely ignores the snot that splatters their shared blanket. "'S dusty in here," the demon says, voice muddy with congestion. 

Aziraphale offers the corner of his own tartan handkerchief for Crowley to use. "Here," he suggests, "have this. Perhaps we should call a doctor... or a demon doctor?" 

Despite his obvious concern for Crowley and disregard for himself, the angel is clearly still not operating at 100%. "Do you think we ought to call a doctor?” 
 

[Vinda]

Out of Order (Part 4)

Previously: "Do you think we ought to call a doctor?”

"Should be asking you that," Crowley responds stubbornly, voice scraping his throat. He looks at Aziraphale with genuine worry. "You were sick first, angel. Really--" he tries to stifle his cough, but it barrels past the attempt, stubbornly bursting into a fit "--sick." 

Aziraphale can't help but return the demon's concerned glance, his own brow furrowing. Is Crowley trying to say that he is only sick because of Aziraphale? "Crowley," he replies quietly, "are you... blaming me for this?"

Crowley figuratively falls over himself to try to keep the angel from blaming himself for accidentally infecting his friend. "No!" the demon cries hoarsely. "Never!"

Aziraphale eyes him uncertainly as he succumbs to an even longer sneezing fit. Thick snot leaks lazily out of one of the demon's nostrils. 

HETCH-choo! Heh, huhh… UKH-shoo. Heh-shoo-- h-huh-EP-SHOOO!

Aziraphale’s feelings of concern and guilt only grow as Crowley continues to splutter. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach out to Crowley, to do something to try to soothe the demon’s suffering, but he contritely keeps his distance. Instead, he gives the demon a bit of polite space to clean himself back up with the borrowed handkerchief. 

Once Crowley’s gaze returns to Aziraphale, the angel asks hesitantly, "Are you... so sure this isn’t my fault?"

"'Course," Crowley argues hoarsely. "You're an angel. You can't--" he pauses to scrub roughly at his nose with one of the blankets "--can't do the wrong thing." 

Aziraphale frowns in disagreement, but his worry and weariness quickly outweigh his desire to point out the flaws in Crowley’s logic. "All right," he says, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "If you are determined to insist, my dear, I will not argue." 

The angel takes a deep, marginally crackly breath in order to calm himself. "I still want to make sure that you receive proper care, though. What can I do to help?” 

As an answer, Crowley allows his head to fall tiredly onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, mouth right by the angel’s ear. 

"Rest," the demon hisses, somehow managing to sound both sick and sweet. 

He gently nudges the angel until they are both lying back down. "Stay here with me," he tempts, voice unfairly alluring even when it is coated in congestion. "All I need to feel better, angel. Stay, and rest."

Crowley's request causes a lump to appear in the back of Aziraphale’s throat and a hint of tears to begin pricking in his eyes. It does not escape the angel’s notice that the demon is still focused on convincing Aziraphale to rest, rather than requesting any comforts for himself. 

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale agrees softly, knowing when he has been beaten. His hand is gentle as he strokes the demon's mussed, sweaty hair away from his still to warm forehead. "I would not… abandon you. Sleep.”

The demon lets his eyes slip back shut, trusting Aziraphale to do the same. The angel whispers a final promise before relaxing his own grip on consciousness. “I’ll be here when you wake up. " 

Despite their mutual clamminess, they cuddle together closely, reveling in the comfort of the other’s company. Side by side, they sleep into the late hours of the night, unbothered by the surrounding mess of snot and perspiration from their shared illness. Even as their sleeping bodies shift with the force of uncovered coughs and sneezes, they hold onto one another, a sense of warm, fuzzy security forestalling any worries from their feverish dreams. 
--

Author's Note: That's all for this one, but I have started another short story. Thank you for reading! 

[Cambria]

Brilliant, I’m in love❤️

[TheCakeIsAlive]

❤️ Those 2 darling creatures. That was so lovely and fluffy and just what the Doctor ordered.  Thank you so much for sharing!

[mordaciousghost]

I love this so much. I was just wishing there was more Good Omens sickfic. This is just beautiful.