The Fallen Angel has a minion!

Mix Tape the Hovering Misfortunat

"Cecil!" a slightly pathetic voice called from the doorway leading into the bedroom of Cecil Palmer and his husband Carlos.

Slowly the blond Voice of Night Vale sat up, yawning wide, "Aza? S'wrong?" The NVCR host blinked all three eyes at the dim glow of the bedroom doorway, being watched by feverish silver eyes.

"Dun feel good," the angel of death whined, her favorite blanket wrapped around her shoulders shifting as she let out a deep cough and sneeze.

A frown passed over Cecil's features as he got up and padded towards the raven haired, winged, being. "Oh, Azrael, you're burning up," the heat shimmered slightly. "There's no way you can go in to work today," the frown returned to the Voice's face.

"But, but the debate," another coughing spell racked the angel. "We're sposed to --"

"Shh, I've got it covered sweetie. You need to stay home and rest," Cecil smiled softly, guiding her back to the front room, to rest on the sofa.

"I could stay home with her Pooh," Carlos suggested, glancing to the grumbling winged being. "I can get Santiago to watch the lab for me. It'll be a nice chance to bond," the scientist stated, quickly cutting off protests from the coughing female.

"Aww too sweet Carlos. I'm sure Aza'll appreciate your efforts, right?" the Voice glanced to his friend with a glint in his eyes. With a faint shiver, the winged being nodded, pulling her blanket tighter.

"I've got this," Carlos smiled shooing his husband out the door, closing it behind him as he turned towards the angel staring almost blankly at the glowing TV. "How about some lunch Azrael?" When he got no response the scientist moved behind the ill and shivering angel to see what had her attention. Clearly a public access show out of Red Mesa, the screen was full of swimming fish and other aquatic animals at the aquarium. "I didn't know you were into marine biology," Carlos attempted.

Finally those feverish silver eyes slid from the TV slowly to meet his own chocolate brown ones and blinked confusedly. "I like otters," Aza coughed out.

"Lutrinae," the scientist smiled. "Is there a particular otter you like?" he asked, sitting in a nearby chair.

"The furry ones," the angel coughed, her eyes sliding back to the TV, even as the lids began to partially shut.

"Right, suppose I walked into that," the scientist shook his head bemusedly. "How about some lunch to help keep your strength up? I think we have everything for me to make my abuela's sopa de pollo con fideo."

Slowly the angel's head rolled back towards the human again, coughing hard before raising a brow, "What?"

A slow smile spread across Carlos' face, "Soup Azrael. It'll help you feel better, scientifically speaking that is." With that he headed for the kitchen to set to work.

In the instant it took Carlos to enter the kitchen the TV snapped off and radio came alive.

"Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack eat chipmunk, Jack get sick, welcome to Night Vale," the familiar and comforting voice poured out of the radio. "Listeners, sad news this evening. It seems my assistant Azrael has come down ill. Sweet, patient, gentle Carlos has assured me it's nothing serious and Aza'll be back in the station in no time at all, as long as she eats her soup, takes her medicine and gets her rest. And now traffic..."

"He's right you know," Carlos smiled setting the black and gold bowl of chicken noodle in front of shivering angel alongside a bottle of dark red liquid. "Eat a little, then take the meds."

Suspicion flooded the ill being's eyes as she attempted and failed to sniff the steaming bowl.

"Would it make you feel better if I took a bite first?" Carlos asked, being met with a curt nod and order to eat from the bowl, though he used his own spoon to avoid catching whatever the winged female had. "Needs a bit more pepper for my taste, but otherwise perfectly fine," the scientist smiled winningly as the angel began to eat cautiously.

By the time the weather came on, the bowl was empty and the angel of death was snuggled down on the sofa. "I'm not going to lie, the medicine is going to taste horrible, and most likely make you sleepy," Carlos admitted, noticing the narrowing of those still feverish silver eyes. "But if an otter can take their medicine in order to get better, so can a winged being, yea?"

"Otters get sick?!" Aza stared up in utter distress at the idea.

"Sometimes, but veterinarians work very hard to make them better, just like I want to make you better," the scientist smiled disarmingly as the angel of death swallowed the liquid and made a face. "Try to get a little rest, Cecil should be home pretty soon."

True to his word, the Voice of Night Vale entered the apartment a half hour later to find his husband working away at the kitchen table and their roommate dozing quietly on the sofa with the TV once more on the Red Mesa Aquarium show. "Well, I take it things went OK then?" Cecil smiled as he pressed a kiss to Carlos' cheek. "No flaming sword, no burning apartment, no portals to other worlds," both men laughed.

"Things were a little rocky at first, but things smoothed out. We had some lunch and her fever broke about an hour ago so with a good night's rest she should be clear to go in the day after tomorrow," Carlos noted.

Nodding, Cecil headed back into the living room to check on the angel. Slowly and somewhat reluctantly Azrael's eyes opened and she yawned wide with a sleepy smile.

Cecil laughed gently. "Feeling better then sweetie?"

Nodding the angel smiled brighter, "Lots better, ready to go back to work tomorrow, but my vet says I have to wait til Thursday to be sure."

"Vet?" Cecil raised an eyebrow, looking between Aza and Carlos.

"I'mma otter," she stated with a sleepy giggle as she slowly dozed back off leaving the Voice of Night Vale to shake his head at the pair with an affectionate smile.

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Welcome to Night Vale created by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor
Today's Weather is Leader of the Band by Dan Fogelberg

Today's proverb: Men are from Mars; women are from Venus; Earth is a hallucination; pet sites are dreams.

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