A small triple-drabble for this 'verse because I'm having fun writing Dorian. Warning for emetophobia (but just a mention).

Crowley stirs from an uneasy slumber at the faint creak of the bedroom door. The throbbing in his temples has dulled, somewhat, but nausea still roils in his stomach, and he doesn't much fancy the thought of sitting up.

"That you, angel?" he mumbles. His answer comes in the form of skittering paws over wooden floorboards, followed by a slight weight landing on the mattress beside him. A furry round thing paws insistently at his arm, and he can't resist the urge to groan.

"No, Dorian. I can't play with you today." Crowley gingerly lifts the cold, damp cloth over his aching eyes for just long enough to see Dorian's broad, inquisitive face hovering inches away from his nose. Even that brief glimpse sends a sharp spike through his brain, and he winces and drops the cloth back over his forehead.

"Where did you even come from?" he mutters. "I thought Aziraphale was keeping you in the shop so you wouldn't come upstairs."

He debates calling the angel to take Dorian away. As much as he (grudgingly) loves the cat, he really does feel awful, and any activity more strenuous than sleeping is bound to make him worse. But Dorian doesn't bounce on the mattress or tread on his face or serenade him with noisy meows, as Crowley fears. Instead, he gains a furry hat as Dorian, with unexpected prudence, circles around his head and plops — carefully — down onto the pillow. His tail tickles Crowley's cheek, and quietly, all but inaudibly, Dorian begins to purr, rumbling through his chest and soothing a measure of the ache in Crowley's skull.

Crowley gradually melts back into the mattress as Dorian's warmth presses against his skin. "Good boy," he says sleepily, and drifts off once more to the lullaby of Dorian's self-satisfied purrs.