#and the yellows being a little messed up like it was misprinted!!

[pyr0graves]

oh my god FINALLY PYRO HAS DRAWN

LIKE 2(?) MONTHS OF NOT MAKING A FINISHED PIECE AND HERE WE ARE WOOOOO

anyways i'm gonna disappear for another million years hehehohoho

i love it when the colors do the color thing and the paper textures do the paper texture things i love drawing i love art i love partaking in the process of creation i lo

[readingwritingcrying]

A good omens prompt? Crowleys a snake, and snakes dont sweat/are cold blooded. No way to internally regulate temperature. So maybe something about that? Overheating in the gardens or something?

nonnie, this prompt was absolutely galaxy brain of you. I’ve read several about him being too cold, but I haven’t seen any with him overheating and it was so much fun to write! Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy!

Similar to how angels and demons don’t need to eat or sleep, they also don’t need to sweat. They don’t need many things a human might, as their grace (or equivalent demonic energy), was. However, there were still limitations. Their bodies could be killed, causing rather inconvenient discorperation. They could change physique depending on lifestyle, most things very similar to a human unless miracled to be otherwise. 

Angels, however, tended to fit in better, at least in terms of appearances. Demons tended to have more animal-like features. Crowley was no exception. His eyes, his tongue, even the way he walked was reminiscent of the beast he was cursed to be. He always hurt some in a human form, and most importantly to this moment: he had absolutely no internal temperature regulation. 

Sure, when Crowley’s flat was chilly, what was a little demonic miracle to warm it up? But when the whole of London felt like it was fucking melting, there just wasn’t much he could get away with.

Especially not now. 

Since the not-apocalypse, he and Aziraphale had to keep it light on the miracles. Little things, sure, after all, they weren’t hiding, just trying their best not to give Heaven or Hell any new reasons to be upset with them. So Crowley couldn’t just get rid of the heatwave, no matter how much he wanted to. 

It caused a whole lot of grumbling from him, at first. Crowley’s flat had air conditioning and heating because he knew it was necessary for himself. He may not have mentioned as much to Aziraphale when they had decided to move in together (a decision made after the second week where Crowley had refused to leave the angel’s side other than to tend his plants). He was a demon for- for Someone’s sake. It seemed silly to need such a thing.

He only regretted it this morning. Crowley’s eyes blinked opened slowly, squinting at the bright light that shone through the window. Normally, he would be content to bask in its warmth. But the whole blessed house felt like an oven. He groaned and sat up lethargically. The black silk of his bed was cool to the touch, and for a moment, Crowley was tempted to simply nap the rest of the day. But a breeze and the rustle of leaves reminded him of more pressing matters: his garden.

Crowley squirmed his way out of bed, dressing with a quick demonic miracle. Black leather pants with a black shirt to match - he had quite sensibly forgone the jacket today. It was worth it, with how hilariously flustered his angel would get whenever he showed a bit more skin than usual (really, Aziraphale’s sensibilities hadn’t changed in decades). 

As Crowley sauntered through the cottage, he realized Aziraphale wasn’t there. He froze quickly, horror flooding like ice through his veins. His slitted eyes darted around the cottage to check for any signs of danger until he spotted it. 

A little yellow note stuck to the door. It wasn’t actually a sticky-note, it was just a square of paper, but since Aziraphale thought it was, the paper found itself not minding being hung from the wooden door. 

‘Someone e-mailed about a misprint bible I’ve been just dying to get my hands on! I went to go meet them, and, well, I wasn’t sure if I should wake you up, you really did look quite peaceful my dear. I’m not even sure if you’ll wake up before I’m back since I won't be very long, I’ll be home for dinner, but just in case.

-Aziraphale’

Crowley’s face relaxed into an easy grin as he read the note. He could hear the words in his head as if the angel were saying them himself - even in a short note, he managed to have the same rambling quality to the way he said things. If Crowley were being particularly truthful, he would admit that he found it rather endearing. 

Letting the pleasant feeling sink into his chest, Crowley was soon out the door. He kept a sizable outdoor garden as well as the smaller one they had in an extension to their cottage. It was odd, modern, and not at all fitting to the homey style of the cottage. As well, it was quite ugly. But it was a decent sunroom, and nearly all the smaller houses seemed to have one. 

But since they ate in there, Aziraphale spoilt them absolutely rotten. It was a lost cause. 

Crowley walked slowly through the garden; face neutral. He glanced casually at the plants, inspecting them from afar with a carefully practiced disinterest as he decided on what he would need to do. Each plant would need careful watering, he could carefully snip at a bush here or a tree branch there, and with a furious hiss, he spotted a patch of weeds that had dared to grow in his garden.

Those he would destroy carefully, slowly, and painfully. Make an example of them.

Decided, Crowley got to it. He was utterly absorbed in it, as he usually was. The sun beating down on his back as he worked was almost forgotten. Each plant was meticulously tended to, checked for spots or for sagging leaves, or pests as the sun rose higher in the sky. 

He didn’t even begin to notice something was wrong until he stretched up with sheers in his hands only to drop them as pain seized his muscles.

He recoiled with a grimace as his muscles cramped, trying to move or breath in a way that didn’t flood his senses with a sharp stab of pain. Eventually, in what felt like hours but couldn’t have been much more than a minute, his body began to relax. 

If his body was that determined to be a snake, it would have to damn well wait, Crowley grumbled in his mind. Pain wasn’t unusual for him, but it usually wasn’t like that. As if he would let that from stopping him, of course.

He was rather busy at the moment, and couldn’t very well garden without arms. He wanted to finish, have Aziraphale come home, have dinner with his angel, and be some semblance of normal or at least of right.

And that was that Crowley pushed forward. The cramping didn’t stop. He was hot, and his muscles seemed to groan and tense with every small movement. And he was tired. It was something that shouldn’t really be possible. He hadn’t used great amounts of demonic power, and he had even slept the night before.

It really should be concerning. He was just too tired to be concerned. As another cramp shot through his stomach, Crowley knelt down in the grass. His skin was a burning shade of reddish-pink, his face was flushed, and his lips were dry. 

Crowley considered calling it a day and retreating to the shade of the indoors. Maybe he could take a cool bath, even. The thought was tempting enough after several minutes of feeling miserable on the ground, he decided to go along with it. A soak might help the cramps, even.

He wasn’t expecting the wave of dizziness when he stood. Crowley groaned a soft noise of discomfort, and steadied himself against the nearest tree. He waited for the odd spell to pass, but his head was still spinning, tilting, pulling his insides along with it. Everything was twisted all around in circles, making a mess out of his vision.

Cooling off in the shade would… well, it would have to do, he decided. Crowley let himself slide down, propping his back against the small trunk of the tree. An apple tree, of course. He growled in frustration as his limbs shook from the motion.

It was so hot and Crowley felt so… weak. 

Letting lethargy overtake him, Crowley let his eyes shut against the bright sun. He was breathing much too heavily, his heart feeling like it was starting to pound right out of his chest. He could barely hear himself think, and even if he could, it hurt his head too much to.

All too quickly he found even if he wanted too, he couldn’t move.

…

When Aziraphale returned from his outing, he could immediately tell that something was off. At this point, he had become rather familiar with the demon Crowley’s presence. Now that they were finally allowed to be together officially, they had hardly spent much time apart. Not that Aziraphale minded - he very much liked their current situation. He found the freedom to express his affections... well, quite honestly nervewracking at first. But aside from the lingering fear he would somehow mess things up, it was nothing short of heavenly. 

He, of course, noticed Crowley’s sudden clinginess as well. And Aziraphale knew that when his - friend? Lover? Crowley seemed so much more than just that - felt like it, he would let him know why. And until then, he was completely happy to indulge him. Actually, he always would be happy to indulge him. 

All of this is to say, Aziraphale was very much attuned to Crowley’s specific demonic presence. So when he arrived at their cottage, he was instantly worried.

It was still there, but it was so much weaker than it should be. He dropped his bag containing the book he had acquired and rushed inside the front door. “Crowley? Crowley, dear, are you alright?” His voice broke into a bit of a tremble. He wasn’t there. Aziraphale checked their bedroom, but there was no sign of him. 

At least the bed was messy, sheets pushed out in a way that confirmed at least Crowley had gotten up of his own volition. 

Aziraphale wrung his hands anxiously. Heaven and Hell couldn’t possibly have come for them yet, could they? Surely not in any organized manner, but if a stray demon ran across them, he feared it might be stupid enough to try and attack them. He needed to find Crowley. 

After confirming that he was not in the house, even in another form, Aziraphale walked back outside to check the backyard. 

Seeing Crowley was both relieving and even more worrying. 

He was awake, his eyes open only just, glasses slid down until they were hanging off his long nose to the point of being useless to actually conceal his eyes. They were all a golden-yellow that Aziraphale adored, but they stared out of focus, not yet seeming to register that Aziraphale was there. His skin was red and flushed, and even from here he could hear Crowley’s labored breathing.

Without a second thought, Aziraphle rushed to his side, kneeling down next to him. “Oh, Crowley, what happened, dear boy? Are you injured?” 

The demon only gave a small “Mn,” in response, and he couldn’t tell if it was a negative or positive answer. Feeling for himself, he was relieved not to find even a scratch on Crowley.

“You’re burning up,” he observed softly. His hands found their way to Crowley’s forehead, which should have been slick with sweat but it was completely dry. Snake, Aziraphale remembered. While Crowley had never mentioned it before, it was very much possible that he had no way of cooling down.

Crowley turned his head to the side, seeming to try and escape Aziraphale’s touch, muttering something incoherently. His eyes were clenched with fear, and with a start,, Aziraphle realized that he must not even recognize him yet.

If he was that disorientated, it couldn’t be a good sign. He could discorporate, even. Aziraphale had to cool him down, quickly. If he didn’t… well, there was no way in hell, literally, they were going to give him back. 

“I’m going to get you inside, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pick you up,” Aziraphale explained to the dazed demon. Crowley turned slightly, hearing him, but gave no answer. 

With a determined sigh, he braced himself, scooping up Crowley in his arms. Aziraphale’s heart broke a little at the panicked hiss he let out but held firm as he walked inside. His struggles were weak, and no match for the angel’s hold, but the fact Crowley was fighting him at all stung and worried him to no end. 

He would be okay. He had to be.

Aziraphale hurried back inside, making sure the temperature was suitably cooler in the cottage than outside. They were in the middle of a heatwave so different from the usual summers in England, and most of the houses didn’t come with any air conditioning. Most houses didn’t have an angel, and really, either could work the same if it wanted to. 

Gently, he sets Crowley down on the couch. Its brown leather was cool, and Aziraphale hoped that it would provide even a bit of relief.

He managed to find a thermometer (which they had gotten once they realized under unfortunate circumstances that Crowley, and most likely himself as well, could fall ill) and pressed the device to Crowley’s lips. 

They remained stubbornly closed. 

“Please open your mouth, dear. I won't hurt you, I promise,” he tried to reassure. Crowley’s gaze- his glasses had fallen off completely after Aziraphale had picked him up - was still clouded, but relaxed ever so slightly. Someone else might not have even been able to tell the difference. But knowing someone 6,000 or so years had its advantages. 

He was able to coax the thermometer into Crowley’s mouth, tutting when he read the final temperature. 40.7 degrees, entirely too high for his mortal form. 

Heatstroke, most definitely. He couldn’t let Crowley stay in those clothes - all tight, and entirely too warm, especially the leather pants he was so insistent on wearing. Even during a damn heatwave.

Aziraphale took off Crowley’s shirt first. He felt his heartbeat through his fingertips. It was fast, rapid, and weak. 

“Zziraphale…” Crowley whined in a panic. 

“Shh, I’m here,” he reassured him carefully. He spoke in warm tones, trying to keep Crowley from too much stress when his temperature was clearly too high for him to be anything but delirious. Eventually, the shirt was off. The tight leather pants were next.

It was a bit more of a struggle, with a much less willing Crowley. But at the very least the only Effort that was there was the effort Aziraphle had in maneuvering the leather atrocities off of him. 

Finally, Crowley’s skin was bare, pressing into the cool couch. His skin was still red with heat, and if he had been human, Aziraphale imagined he would be blistered with sunburns. 

Aziraphale was impatient. He simply couldn’t stand to see Crowley in such a poor state, still so defenseless and confused by his surroundings. An idea struck him. If he ran a cool bath - not freezing cold, he didn’t want to shock the poor demon and make the situation worse - it might do more good.

That, and draw less attention than constantly performing miracles to keep the heat down in their cottage.

With that in mind, Aziraphale quickly drew a bath up in their bathroom (which they really only had in case of human guests, and mostly because Aziraphlae really enjoyed the clever invention humans called bath bombs). After checking the temperature to make sure it was suitable, he went to retrieve Crowley.

He was lying on his side, curled up and looking dreadful. “Crowley, may I pick you up again?” Aziraphale lay his hands on Crowley’s back, encouraged by the fact he seemed to press into his hands instead of flinching away. 

Crowley murmured something that sounded nearly like a “sure,” and the slight nod confirmed this. Gingerly, Aziraphale scooped him up. He was muttering something that Aziraphale couldn’t quite make sense of, but that was really no surprise given his current state.

His plan was going rather well until they actually made it to the bathroom. When Crowley’s eyes blinked open, they stayed that way, staring at the water. Not noticing, Aziraphale tried to set Crowley in the bath.

Before he could think about what was happening, Crowley was struggling again, letting out a pained yell, hitting, scratching, whatever he could manage. “‘Ziraphale! Aziraphale! Angel!” he cried, his voice not managing to be loud even as he called for help. 

A wave of guilt crashed through Aziraphale as quickly as he realized what Crowley must have thought he was doing. He thought it was holy water, he didn’t realize it was Aziraphale and thought he was going to be killed. The cries of his love brought tears to his own eyes, although it shamed him to admit it. Too emotional. 

He set Crowley on the edge of the bath, safely dry. “Crowley, dearest, I’m here. You’re safe. Please, nothing will hurt you,” he said, repeating similar things until his desperate escape attempts settled, and finally, Crowley’s eyes seemed to actually settle on the angel’s, seeing him.

“Will you get into the bath please?” Crowley shuddered, his eyes closing with a shake of his head. How many times had Crowley been threatened with this, or whatever else hell had up it’s sleeve before the Trial that Aziraphale had gone to? He had been so caught up in his own fear of consequences, Aziraphale hadn’t realized how much it must have affected him.

To Aziraphale Crowley seemed much more careless, always showing up when he wanted him, and saying things that were far too dangerous, too fast. 

Only with his guard forcibly down could he see how he had been wrong. “You must trust me. Please, Crowley,” he all but begged.

A beat, and then, “Anything,” Crowley agreed. 

With a great sigh of relief, Aziraphale helped Crowly into the bath.

…

Crowley caught sight of the bath with the water, and his mind froze with fear. Whoever had him they. They must have found them. They must have found out, about their lie, and he was too dizzy and disoriented to properly fight, but damn if he wouldn’t try.

He thrashed about, calling for his angel, hoping by some miracle he would be heard, that they would make it out of this. His limbs ached and his head spun, but he couldn’t just submit. 

Please, please. I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him alone. 

They seemed to relent, hold relinquished, and the water at a safe distance away. It must be holy water, he could feel… he felt awful. But he could at least tell there was a holy presence and nothing in hell felt like that, so it must be holy water. 

“...dearest, I’m here,” Crowley heard, his heart lightening with a bit of hope. “You’re safe, nothing will hurt you.” 

Aziraphale. He came. 

“Will you get into the bath please?” Crowley’s mind felt fractured with confusion. Why would he ask him that? The angel was safe, he couldn’t want him to go into the holy water. That couldn’t possibly happen.

He couldn’t find the voice to explain it to Aziraphale though, his throat too dry, so he just shook his head, trying to ignore the way it made him feel the world spin. 

“You must trust me. Please, Crowley.” And that was so unfair. He couldn’t say no when Aziraphale used that tone of voice, and he knew that but why…?

Whatever the reason, Crowley could never refuse his angel, and in his feverish mind, not even this. “Anything,” he said, betrayal and confusion comforted only slightly by how soft and pleasingly cool Aziraphale’s hands were as he helped him into the water.

Crowley shuttered, letting out a low wine as he first touched the water, fully expecting to start sizzling away. 

He didn’t.

In fact, he was laying down, half-submerged, and he wasn’t dead.

It hurt to try and think about at first, but Aziraphale waited patiently beside him, comforting him with low voices and hums, and the occasional rubbing of his right shoulder with soft hands. 

Eventually, he had cooled down enough to think properly. Or at least, think, instead of bursts of realizations powered by blind instinct and emotion. 

“Angel,” he said, voice rough and dry. 

“Oh! Crowley, are you feeling much better?” asked Aziraphale, starting at the demon’s sudden inturruption. 

“Nngh. Could be worse. What…?” He trailed off, making a gesture, splashing a bit of water, to reference his current pradiciment. 

Aziraphale huffed. “You gave me quite a scare, you know. You were nearly passed out in the garden, and don’t you know not to work in such heat? And with black leather, too. You’ve been practically delirious for a good bit.” Although he tries to sound annoyed, Crowley can easily see through the weak front to his obvious worry and care.

He might feel bad for making Aziraphale worry, but that’ll have to wait until he stops feeling so bad himself. “Nn- uh, yeah,” he agreed, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Too damn loud, it is. His head is still pounding. 

“Is there anything you need?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley thinks about it. 

“Water?” He realized it seemed like a silly thing to ask for, considering he was in a tub full of it. “A cup. For, uh, drinking. Throat hurts,” he quickly explained. Aziraphale looks at him a little strangely, but before he can think, there’s a cup of deliciously cool water being pressed into his hands. 

He takes a long, indulgent sip, savoring how it soothed his dry throat. He could feel the cold as it traveled down to his stomach, making him feel just a bit better. “No need for a miracle, really,” he chastized Aziraphale, voice more tender than biting. 

Aziraphale chuckled self-consciously. “I hate seeing you this way, you know.” And Crowley does know. For mostly immortal beings, death isn’t a concept they deal with often, not for themselves. There’s always the assumption of tomorrow, and thousands of more tomorrows because they weren't really meant to end. 

And Crowley knew that when you had to consider it, it was more frightening and painful than he’d like to remember. He wanted to explain it, but that might’ve meant having to say some rather difficult things, and he was too tired for rather difficult things. “Sorry,” he offered instead, which might have been the easiest sign he still felt a little like shit warmed over. 

Aziraphale gave him a tender smile. “How about we get you to bed? I’m sure you’re tired.”

Crowley nodded and stood up. As he stepped out of the bath, he leaned heavily on Aziraphale. The water got the idea and got out of the way, not wanting to bother to two with any residual dampness. 

With his help, Crowley managed to stagger to their bedroom. He flopped on the bed, a small sound of comfort escaping his lips. “Commere, ‘ngel,” he said, voice muffled by the pillow. 

“I wouldn’t want to make you any warmer,” Aziraphale hesitated, luckily versed in Crowley-speak, with or without most levels of distortion. 

Crowley lifted his head from its comfortable spot and shot him a Look. He might not be able to resist any ask of Aziraphale, but Aziraphale had to surrender to the Look, so it was only a matter of time until a soft, shirtless angel was available for cuddling.

Crowley let the exaustion finally take its natural course, and he was soon asleep, possibly even followed by Aziraphale.

[elanesherriff6-blog]

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