A/N: Love this book. So much. Just… wanted to play around with the characters, that's all. This is… weird. Let's just assume that when an angel or a demon gets sick, they can't go anywhere. Also, I realize that in this their probably a bit offensive to Shakespeare, France, America, and… I'm sure there are other things. I apologize on their behalf.
Summary: There were only so many times either of them were sick, really.
Gesundheit
-1-
Shakespeare, to Crowley, was boring. Sure, he was wild compared to the rest of those Elizabethans, but when compared to a demon? Or even an angel, for that matter? He was just another of the masses.
Crowley just didn't see what was so special about him. Aziraphale, of course, was smitten with the guy.
"Did you know he made up at least twenty new words in this play? He made up new words, Crowley! It's genius!"
He had finally gotten the angel to stop calling him Crawly (1), and he very much liked the sound of his new name. It sounded very… human.
"I don't want to see some play, angel. I have more important things to do." This was a lie, but Aziraphale didn't know that. It wasn't that Crowley didn't like the theater (2), it was just that he didn't trust this Shakespeare guy. No one got that good in their life as to make up new words. He had just… come out of nowhere.
Aziraphale got sick before they could go. He had whined about it, proclaimed that it was just a cold, and even had tried to miracle it away. Nothing seemed to work.
"I can't believe I got sick now, of all times." He glared at Crowley. "You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?"
"No!" Crowley denied. Still, he felt a twinge of guilt, however much he tried to deny it.
He sat down in the chair across from Aziraphale and stayed there.
"Thought you had stuff to do," the angel said weakly.
Crowley didn't deem him with a reply.
-2-
Crowley was sick during the French Revolution. Rather, he had been sick the whole time leading up to it, which meant that they (3) were stuck in Paris for the entirety of the debacle.
They weren't entirely sure who claimed it, but Crowley wanted to give it to Aziraphale. The people really had needed a break, and while the blood of the bourgeoisie that ran through the streets did not seem so angelic, it more or less had a happy ending for the proletariat.
The Reign of Terror was even more ambiguous, but secretly Crowley felt it was his. Even if he did have a bloody cold at the time.
Aziraphale came back one morning with tomato in his hair, a fearsome smell accompanying him. Crowley sneezed.
"They're throwing rotten vegetables, my dear. I think that you should hurry up and get better so we can leave. I never really liked France. We should go back to England," he suggested, brushing out some bits of tomato.
"That's a fruit," Crowley corrected in a scratchy voice. "And besides, it's your own damn fault. You're too clean, they don't like it."
"My hygiene is none of their business." He sniffed and sat down in a chair next to the bed Crowley had lain in for about three years. Damn it, at least during the Inquisition his rest had been peaceful. Here he tossed and turned and sneezed and coughed every five seconds.
He decided he didn't like France very much either.
"Yeah," he said suddenly, startling Aziraphale. "Let's go back to England."
After all, he had never gotten sick in England. That had been Aziraphale, and Crowley still blamed Shakespeare for that (4).
It took only another week for him to get better. Then, they were off to England.
-3-
Actually, they made a stop in America first (5), where, after about a hundred years of running around and doing nothing in particular, Aziraphale caught Crowley's cold. At least, that's where they assumed he got it from.
They were trapped in America for the time being.
"We should've gotten out at the first sniffle," Aziraphale moaned. He rubbed at his eyes.
"It's really boring here," Crowley complained right back. "I think I liked it a bit more when it was still ruled by the British. There was lots of conflict back then. I liked the conflict."
"Feel free to kill me," Aziraphale moaned. "Curse these vessels and their weak immune systems."
"Suck it up," Crowley said, well aware that he had been just as whiny when he was sick. He was equally aware that, considering the look of righteous indignation Aziraphale was giving him right now, he probably wouldn't survive the hours after the angel was well again.
But right now, there wasn't much either of them could do about that.
-4-
It was after the Apocalypse. To be more specific, it was after the Apocalypse failed thanks to a perfectly normal Antichrist, his three friends, a witch and a witch hunter, and two old people.
And Crowley and Aziraphale, of course.
They had returned back to Aziraphale's sad, little (6) bookstore, and were in the process of sweeping up. Adam had yet to put this one thing back to normal as of now, and they were not going to sit around in piles of ash until he did.
Besides, Crowley had a sneaking suspicious that if he didn't have something to keep his mind off of it, Aziraphale was going to burst into tears at the thought of all his poor burnt books.
Suddenly, he felt a tickle in his nose, and the next thing he knew was that he was sneezing like a madman. Aziraphale looked at him aghast, and when he finally got a word in, he ordered,
"Don't you dare get sick, you silly old snake."
Crowley smiled up at him in between sneezes and replied, "I think we've all had enough of that. Let's get out of here; it's all this stupid dust."
"That dust is the remains of hundreds of wonderful books, my dear. I should hope that, if anything, it is very very smart dust."
They grabbed their coats and headed for St. James' Park.
-End-
(1) Now if he could just get the other demons to do the same.
(2) He especially loved operas.
(3) Aziraphale was, of course, with him at the time.
(4) While the angel insisted on blaming the demon.
(5) Which was strange because it wasn't really on the way to England or anything.
(6) Very, very crispy, though Crowley wasn't going to mention that part as it was rather obvious.