Chapter Text
Crowley sauntered down the street, flanked by rows and rows of anonymous buildings. Humming to himself and bopping to a beat only he could hear, he flicked his fingers up at one window, then another. A scattering of dripping faucets. A few elevators that would close nearly on the nose of someone laden with bags and packages. Tuning the fluorescent lights above cubicles to a dreary and malevolent flicker. All the while brushing shoulders with commuters heading home, sowing just enough irritation and discord to sour their evenings. Enough of a web of mischief and misery to make him grin. When he recounted the deeds of the day to his angel tonight, he’d get an exasperated smile and a few fond kisses.
A familiar face emerged from the crowd.
“That you, Ligur? Must say, you’re looking very alive. Good on ya! What’s it been? Four years?”
“I’m Hastur, you flash bastard,” the other demon growled, thrusting a pile of paper into Crowley’s hands. “You’ve been served,” he shoved past Crowley, almost knocking the slender demon off his feet.
For a minute, Crowley was too stunned to notice the baleful glowing typeface or the prickly sensation creeping up his arms. Oh no. Oh no no no… he pulled forth hellfire and torched the curse papers before they could sink in deeper. The effort of what should have been a minor miracle left him gasping. He went cold all over as something ticklish worked its way up his throat.
The force of the coughing fit sent him down to his knees on the pavement. A swarm of… butterflies?… poured forth from his mouth. After it passed, he could only stare dazedly at the butterflies, as they flitted away to do whatever it is a spontaneous flock of butterflies did in Central London. He hauled himself up on shaking legs. He heard the sweetest sound in all of London- the rev of his beautiful Bentley close by. He staggered towards her and tumbled inside. “Take me home,” he rasped.
A short time later, the sharp blare of the Bentley’s horn roused him. His bleary gaze settled on the bookshop. He caressed the Bentley’s dashboard. Brilliant old girl.
The Bentley’s noise had pulled Aziraphale from whatever book he’d been buried in, and the angel met him at the car door. Crowley didn’t want to admit how much he needed Aziraphale’s arm to get him to his feet.
“Are you all right, dearest? You look simply awful.”
“Ran into Hastur. Got cursed. ‘S nothing serious.” But talking sparked another coughing fit. He leaned into Aziraphale as he choked out another cloud of butterflies. Aziraphale rubbed his back until the fit passed.
“Let’s get you inside, dear, and make you some nice lemon tea with honey,”
As soon as he was within reach of the settee, Crowley collapsed onto it gratefully. He flung an arm over his aching head. Aziraphale bustled into the kitchen, and the familiar clatter of tea being made was soothing.
He roused himself when Aziraphale emerged with the tea things.
“Monarch butterflies. What a curious curse,” mused the angel.
“Weird kind of Disney princess bollocks,” Crowley croaked, after a long swallow of tea. His throat was sore but the tea did help.
With his throat feeling a little better, the rest of the ways he felt awful were catching up to him. The headache was starting to seep down into the rest of his body. He shivered and grabbed the tartan blanket off the end of the settee. Ugh, he was still cold. He set his empty mug down and scooted closer to his angel. Aziraphale was always nice and warm. “Are you cold, dear?” Aziraphale rested his nice warm hand against Crowley’s cheek. “You feel quite warm to me. You might have a fever.”
Crowley shivered some more and laid his head on Aziraphale’s soft, warm shoulder. “Blegh,” he observed.
The small moment of comfort shattered when Crowley felt his insides writhe. “Grab th’ bin,” he choked out. He hung his head over the wastebasket and heaved and coughed. A series of small, acrid tastes slid over his tongue and dropped into the bin. He felt Aziraphale rubbing his back, and the faint fizz of a healing miracle. Crowley’s throat burned with whatever he was heaving up. Another miracle on the periphery. His head started to pound more painfully and whatever he was coughing up seemed to double.
When he was done, he collapsed against Aziraphale’s side and groaned. Aziraphale handed him the miraculously refilled mug of honeyed tea, and he drained half of it.
“Okay, so not just butterflies,” he gasped, while Aziraphale stroked his sweaty hair.
“It’s frogs,” Aziraphale peered into the bucket. “Something tropical, but I’d have to look it up. I think I have a volume of expedition notes…”
“Ugh, less zoology, more sympathy?”
“Oh my dear boy… and bed, I think.”
“Gimme a minute,” Crowley slouched over, rubbing his aching head. “Okay, I can do this. Standing. Right. Better bring the bin.”
With Aziraphale’s arm around him, he hauled himself to his feet and managed to shamble toward the stairs.
He made it to the landing before another coughing fit took over and he had to sit on the step. Same staccato bits of bitterness, with the rasp of wings scraping his throat. Aziraphale sat beside him, rubbing his back through a cascade of frogs and a small cloud of butterflies. Crowley leaned away from the angel’s hand starting a miracle. “Healin’ makes it…” he paused to cough up more frogs “hurt worse.”
“Oh my dear, terribly sorry.”
When the fit subsided, the angel said, “Grab hold of the bin, dear one, and close your eyes I think.” Aziraphale scooped Crowley up, bin and all, and carried him the rest of the way to the bedroom, where he laid Crowley gently down on the bed. Aziraphale set the bin aside, and waved away the butterflies trying to land on him. “Let’s get you comfortable, dearest.”
“Can I have one of your shirts? Soft one?”
Aziraphale helped Crowley get into one of the angel’s well-worn cotton undershirts, ignoring the demon’s protests that he could do it himself, thank you, and soft flannel pajama bottoms, then got him tucked in cozily. Crowley curled on himself, the picture of misery.
“Are you warm enough, dearheart?”
“Still cold.”
Aziraphale spread two fuzzy (tartan) blankets on top of the duvet. He spared a quick glance at the bin full of frogs, but the poor things still seemed too stunned to move. What were they, he knew he’d seen them somewhere… He snapped softly to call up a favorite zoological tome, and heard an answering moan from the bed.
“Hurtsss.”
Aziraphale sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. “So sorry, dear heart.” He ran his hand soothingly over Crowley’s back. Crowley, usually a perpetual seeker of touch, squirmed away. “Hurtss,” he said again. His yellow eyes opened into bleary slits. “Ssssorry.”
“Don’t apologize for a thing, dearest. Whatever you need. Want to try more tea?”
“Ngh,” said Crowley, burrowing under the covers.
“You try and get some sleep then, dear one. There’s a fresh bin right by the bed, if you need it. I’ll go sort out the wildlife.” Aziraphale nudged an empty wastebasket closer to Crowley’s side of the bed.
“Thanksss. Loveyou.” Crowley croaked.
“Love you too. I’ll be back in two shakes,” said Aziraphale and tiptoed out, carrying the bin full of tropical frogs, and trailed by fluttering monarchs.
Once downstairs, Aziraphale considered the problem. The curse was twisting healing miracles, and even proximity to normal miracles seemed to be doing something nasty to his poor demon.
Which left the problem of a bucket full of frogs that had no business being in Soho. Sending the whole bin to the London Zoo had a certain appeal, but making it their problem would expend a miracle to do a half-assed job, and that would be wrong. While he considered the problem, he started a pot of ginger lemon tea, the human way. Aziraphale stared down at the small multicolored frogs, then went to rummage among his books. Should be an illustrated volume of… aha! Yes.
Poison dart frogs, native to Colombia and other areas of South America.
“Away you go,” Aziraphale held the image of their jungle habitat in mind and snapped his fingers. He tiptoed upstairs with the book, the empty bin and the teapot, to check on his demon.
Crowley had roused and was pulling himself upright, starting to cough again. Aziraphale hurried to help him with an arm around him. “Not gonna be frogs,” he gasped in between making horrible noises. Aziraphale held the bin ready. Crowley coughed and coughed, and Aziraphale could only hang on. He slumped over the bucket with one last cough, and disgorged a creature. Another bout of coughing took him before he could catch his breath. Aziraphale ached to reach out with a miracle, but held himself in check. Two more creatures dropped into the bucket. Crowley slumped against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Tea,” he croaked, and the angel handed him the mug. There was movement from the bucket. They both peered in.
“Birds?” Three stunned, black and orange birds lay in the bottom of the bucket.
“Wha’s next, bunnies?” Crowley gasped, who felt like this would prove his Disney Princess curse diagnosis.
Aziraphale refilled Crowley's mug.
“No, wait, I’ve seen these before. I know what they are,” ugh trying to think made his head hurt. “Tropical thingy, toxic feathers. Patchouli, ptooey, some blessed thing”
Too much talking had him leaning over the bucket to add to the flock. Aziraphale winced in sympathy with every cough and painful heave. Finally, Crowley laid back and tried to catch his breath. Aziraphale handed him a glass of ice water.
“Pitohui?” Aziraphale said. He’d seen something in a book once…
“Yeah, that. pop these down to Hell. Shax’s dirty little secret, she sucks on ‘em for jollies. “
Crowley rummaged in the bucket, grabbed one by the feet and put his tongue to one wing.
Aziraphale gave a horrified gasp. “Crowley don’t!”
Crowley made a disgusted noise and dropped the bird in the bucket, leaned over to heave up a few more, before collapsing against the pillow.
“Might be something to that, actually, everything’s gone spinny.”
He waved a hand, trying for regal, but too shaky to manage. “Angel, snap those Downstairs with our compliments.” He coughed. “Oooh! Put a note in!”
“Dear, you are impossible,” said Aziraphale, fond, exasperated. But he took up the bin and headed towards the bedroom door.
“Stay, Wanna be part of you ruining Shax’s secret”
“A miracle so close will hurt you, love”
“Rghh, everything hurts already, jus’ do it”
Aziraphale snapped and Crowley curled himself around a pillow, whimpering
“Worth it,” he said raggedly. He felt a tickle in his throat. “Gimme the bin,” he croaked.
