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The scent of illness - sweet and rotten, almost cloying to his demonic nose - assaults Crowley's senses the second he steps over the threshold of the shabby house. It takes him a moment to shake it off and move on soft feet towards the upstairs bedroom where he can sense the angelic presence. He should be used to the illness-related unpleasantness by now. It is, after all, a cataclysmic event, this epidemic. Or is it pandemic? He's not sure if the word has been invented yet. With a sinking feeling in his stomach Crowley slides into the room on the last floor of this rickety, poor home and freezes, watching the scene.
Aziraphale looks dishevelled, his coat carelessly thrown onto the dirty windowsill, sleeves rolled up and stained with something Crowley doesn't have a wish to analyse. His face is nearly ashen with exhaustion, hair messy as if the angel has been tugging on it and running his fingers through it. Which, he probably did. Crowley sighs quietly to himself, still unseen and unheard - unnoticed by the angel. Aziraphale's full focus is on the dying girl, maybe an eight or nine year old tiny little blonde with long lashes and horrible rasp in her breath that tells the story of almost drowning in her own lungs, her face flushed with fever. Why is she all alone, with only the angelic being for company? There should be family around her bed - but then Crowley remembers, they can't catch the illness but others, the human inhabitants of the house do. And he doesn't feel any other human around.
"Volcanoes and floods, epidemics and wars... Why do I always find you with your head bent over some human misery?"
Aziraphale raises his head from where he was whispering soft words to the little girl, and smiles at Crowley tiredly. The demon tries his damn hardest to pretend that warmth doesn't pool in his stomach, that this smile doesn't mean a thing in the millennia of their friendship.
"Because they live such short, frail lives and they don't have much time, and so many things go wrong for them." Aziraphale shrugs and tugs at his own hair again. Crowley strides into the room, finally realising he really doesn't need to be standing in the doorway, and with a few pointed gestures makes the stains and tears and a little bit of drool disappear from the angel's clothes and face.
"You're a glutton for punishment. Have you eaten?"
"Stop fussing." Zira places a hand on Crowley's shoulder and squeezes a little, enjoying the warmth of skin hidden by layers of clothing. "You and I both know that we don't need the sustenance to survive. And she doesn't have much time left."
"So she will..?"
"Most likely, yes." With another sigh, the angel turns back to his little patient and perches on the edge of the straw mattress. "She's the last one, you see. Her parents and five siblings, all gone already. A doctor passed through but couldn’t stay, there are so many others he needs to see… Anyway, there is a grandmother, she has been notified but she won't come until the snowstorm passes, and by then it will probably be too late. And I didn't want this child to die alone, Crowley."
"One could hope for a Christmas miracle."
Twentieth century hasn't been kind to Aziraphale, and it has barely begun. The muddy hell of the Somme has left something of a shadow on the angel's face, and there is a slump to his shoulders that hasn't been there before. Crowley would be worried if it was in his nature, he would sit next to the angel so that he would have company - at least this way once the little girl has passed he wouldn't be alone. Oh, damn it. He does it anyway, hell be damned.
"I don't believe there will be one," Zira says quietly, probably afraid a lightning will strike him as he says it. But nothing of the sort happens, and Crowley - without looking at him - reaches out to put one hand on the angel's trembling fingers. They sit like this, quiet, listening to the howling winds and the nameless child's breathing. She's a fighter, the demon thinks, she doesn't want to go into that gentle night. So while he cannot pray, Crowley hopes there will be a turning of the tide, a miracle when people all around are celebrating the Saviour's coming.
Perhaps He would save her, too.
Aziraphale stops trembling sometime before the dawn, and then he lists a little like a too heavy ship, and then finally rests against Crowley's shoulder. It's nice, in a way, even though it's a bit uncomfortable. But oh well, Crowley can take a little bit of drool. And so they stay, the angel and the demon, and the sick child.
By the time the dawn finally comes, the little girl is still breathing.
Crowley stays with him until the little girl is safe in her grandmother's arms, still weak and pale but alive, oh, so alive , her heart pumping blood and her thin fingers squeezing the thick wool of the older woman's scarf. They watch the mortals leave this empty shell of a house, both too tired to move despite being eternal. And then they continue to sit in this companionable silence that comes with being friends for a couple of millennia, Aziraphale still leaning over Crowley's shoulder, comfortable and comforted, yes, he sought comfort and received it without hesitation.
Sometimes Aziraphale thinks that Crowley would make a better angel than he does. Every time something horrible happens - and it's so often these days - his demon finds him, eyes shadowed and sad, more often than not hidden by the dimmed glasses like Crowley is ashamed of his own sadness. Perhaps he is. But here is the paradox for you to ponder: angels are taught not to care, not to get emotionally involved in the lives of the humans, not to be too good for the "lower" species. Demons get no such thing. Sure, there is the whole evil spiel, temptations and such, but aren't temptations mostly about being free? Including freedom to love whatever and whoever one chooses?
Aziraphale would be a splendid demon, Crowley knows. Of course not splendid in the same way hell understands it, no, their way is too corporate and too close to heaven's understanding of the world. But in Crowley's eyes - and he believes being a demon is all about doing whatever the hell he likes and not caring about what the rest of the world thinks about it - Aziraphale would be simply breathtaking.
They sit there in silence for a long time.
"I should move on, find another poor soul," Aziraphale says eventually with a sigh. "Thank you, my friend. Your company, as always, has been a delight."
I need you with me , he doesn't say, the words not willing to escape his slightly constricted throat. You remind me how to cry and laugh, how to enjoy, how to go on when everything looks like it would be better to just give up already. You make it easier to survive, and to move on with a clear head, you make my days better, I need you with me at all hours but it would be too selfish of me. Angels are not allowed to want.
The joy of seeing Crowley never fades, it's just as strong as always every single time the demon enters the room or jumps out from some bushes (it happens more often than you'd think). The pain of parting with him is just as acute too, and Aziraphale would like to skip that feeling if possible - but he knows it also makes it sweeter to meet again. The angel doesn't know the word to explain this feeling but perhaps "love" is the closest. Though how can one word contain something so large?
"Well, somebody has to make sure you don't waste away, from time to time at least," the demon answers with a pretended nonchalance and a shrug. Still, neither of them makes a move to get up and leave.
You should rest , he doesn't say, the words behaving like skittish wild animals, not really willing to cooperate with what he'd like to convey. I am worried about you and I would like to make sure you're alright, just come with me, let's find some comfortable bed and sleep for a century, humanity be damned. Let's be selfish for a little while, my angel, the world will suffer anyway whether you try to save its orphans and kittens and broken hearts or not.
Aziraphale is always at the back of his mind, Crowley has already accepted this as just a part of life, the bittersweet eternal punishment of wanting something he cannot have. Not just because hell forbids it - to hell with, well, hell. But Aziraphale is so thoroughly good, Crowley wishes to spare him every discomfort and unpleasant experience he can. And so he watches from as close of a distance as he allows himself, brings endless cups of tea and finds the best dishes possible, at spells the pillows to be softer when Aziraphale doesn't pay attention (the angel knows anyway).
For now, neither of them will say anything. It will take time, and time is a patient beast. But there will come a day.