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Crowley sighs, letting his magazine fall into his lap as he leans his head back over the couch armchair to look at his partner.
“I’m getting really tired of this, angel.”
“What’s that, darling?” he flicks the page of his book, not looking up.
“I’ve got to use the loo again.”
It had been upwards of a month since the initial change had happened; at first, miracles had gone from a mere snap away to needing some real focus put into them, then a pain to do nearly at all, then they got to a point where they were so physically and mentally draining that they weren’t viable to use nearly as frivolously as before. Then, they found themselves having to remind themselves to breathe - then to eat, and to sleep. Then, all at once, they were nearly half human. Sure, they could still pull their wings out and perform minor miracles. Crowley could still revert to snake form, and Aziraphale to his angelic form, but other than that, they were as human as Adam and the rest. And they were slowly beginning to realize that humanity came with some frustrating problems.
Evening falls, and Crowley steps out of the bathroom, freshly showered, his towel resting on his shoulders and his black robe pulled tightly around him. He stares at himself in the mirror for a long time, eyes taking in the new details that he’d never noticed before - his eyes looked sunken in, his skin loose in some areas and taut in others. He knew that all of this was literally surface level - he’d never cared about it before, so why start now? And yet, his hands touched his face, rubbing at stubble and sliding down his body where they felt the curve of bones and fat under his fingertips.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale calls from the kitchen, and he jolts just slightly, “I’ve just put dinner on the table. Come along,”
“Oh, angel,” he grimaces, pulling his shirt over his head as he walks into the kitchen. “You know I hate this bit. I haven’t eaten in a millenia,”
“Well, you’d best get accustomed to it. We haven’t got much of a choice,” he tosses a dish towel over his shoulder, viewing his meal with a studious eye, unaware of the quiver he’s just released in Crowley’s stomach. “I do believe my carrots have dried out… Come, sit.”
“If I must,” Crowley sidles into the chair beside him. “I will say it’s all very pretty,”
“Do try to eat, please. I can’t have you wasting away,” he pecks a kiss on his cheek, making his face warm.
“Alright,” Crowley sighs. “I’ll try.”
He turns this way, and that, and sideways in the mirror, looking at his pale form. No, surely he couldn’t see the few bites of beef and veg sitting at his navel. It must be his imagination. Even still, he can’t help but poke and prod at it, pinching the skin til it stung, blooming a rosy red.
”Not much of a choice,” he echoes quietly. “Haven’t ever had much of a choice of anything recently. Get rid of all this if I had a ruddy choice.” He sighs and turns, pulling his robe on with more force than necessary; it blows a piece of paper trash into the toilet bowl, catching his eye. He stares at it as it dissolves into nothing. He reaches towards the flusher and pushes it down carefully, watching the water drain away from him. “Oh, no…” he groans under his breath, but it’s already there, a thought eating at his brain, a seed of a terrible idea, sprouting, unrelenting. The only way to get rid of it is to flush it out.
The tile is cold and harsh on his knees. This is stupid, he scoffs quietly to himself. This is a pubescent girl’s illness. This isn’t going to work for him. And yet, his hands find the sides of the porcelain, cold under his skin. Things didn’t used to be so cold all the time; everything now is so damn cold. And there’s nothing he can do about it; this damned lack of demonic energy was driving him mad. He just wanted to be able to act freely as he wanted to again, he just wanted to be in control again–
His knuckles turn white against the bowl as he chokes, face suddenly fiercely hot, contrasting against the cold on his hands and knees. He heaves, tears burning his eyes as they run down his face. Trying to be sick quietly is almost impossible, but he’s damned again if he doesn’t try; he pulls his hair away from his feverish face, tears falling down his cheeks. When the gagging ebates, he sits back, his back resting against the cold side of the tub. He’s hot and freezing and ill and shuddering, and most disgustingly of all, he’s relieved. He’s so relieved and satisfied, and he knows he shouldn’t be, but he is. He stands, still shaking, and looks in the mirror once more, turning this way and that. Perhaps it’s his imagination; his stomach is flat again.
“Crowley?” There’s a soft knock at the door, and his heart hammers. “Are you alright? You’ve been in there for quite a while,”
“I’m fine,” he flushes the toilet, rinsing his mouth out with water. “Just fine. I’m coming,” he pulls his shirt on, then opens the door to a wide-eyed Aziraphale.
“Well, I wasn’t rushing you, dear. Are you sure everything’s… alright?”
“Yeah, of course. Let’s get the kitchen cleaned up, hm?” he brushes past him and down the hall.
“Yes… right.”
The next morning, he was up early, before Aziraphale - since the change, the angel has come to quite enjoy sleeping, and he looked so charming nested in blankets in the blueish-gold hues of the sunrise. Despite how much he’d liked to have stared at him all morning, Crowley had work to do; the previous night, when the angel had begun to snore softly, Crowley had set to the wonderful world of the internet.
He wasn’t a fool, he knew there were dark corners of humanity that relished in the sort of thing he had suddenly set out to do, and he had known indeed who had created the havens for such corners - he sneered lightly at the thought of Famine going after humans, but, then again, he was suddenly a pot in a room full of kettles. One new account on a blogging site and a few hours of scrolling later, Crowley was invigorated with inspiration. He hadn’t even slept.
The first thing to do was a weigh-in. They didn’t have a scale, no need for it really, until now. He held his hands out in front of him, eyebrows furrowing as he shut his eyes tight with concentration. come on, he thinks, just one today, that’s all. One easy miracle. Metal and gears and control… a cold and slightly heavy weight falls into his palms, and he opens his eyes, smiling; it’s perfect. Nevermind the dizziness or the slight side-step he had to do to keep himself upright, now he had a scale. Now he was getting somewhere. He wasn’t sure how Aziraphale would react, so for now, at least, he would keep it in the greenhouse - somewhere only he ever goes, But, first…
His stomach tensed. This was probably the most ill he’d felt since being sick, and he hadn’t even stood on the damn thing yet. He glanced around, still hearing the soft snoring coming from the bedroom; he stripped quickly of his clothes and stepped onto the scale, cold on his feet. The numbers jumped up, then fell just slightly… 73 kg. Well, it certainly wasn’t low enough, but not a terrible starting point either; he knew of some people online whose starting weights were bounds beyond that.
And the next thing. Crowley wasn’t one to eat, but he knew that he had a handful of guilty pleasures in the house. Red wine? Much too high in calories, and Aziraphale had sworn off the stuff since they stopped being able to miracle the hangover away. One swift toss and it was in the garbage. Then go the dark chocolates he likes, then the mints and gum he likes to chew while he gardens… he doesn’t dare touch any of Aziraphale’s food, for many reasons; he can’t get caught, it would be plain rude, and Aziraphale’s soft flesh is one of the only things that makes him smile lately. The rest of the list is also full of things pertaining to Aziraphale, though that’s not the point.
Crowley has just come back into the house since taking out the trash when he hears Aziraphale walking down the hall; he smiles and walks over to him, cupping his face and kissing him sweetly; Aziraphale moans in surprise, having been awake for such a short time that this sudden display of affection shocks him.
“Darling?” Aziraphale pulls back to take in the bright look on his lover’s face; the way his eyes shone. “You’re… chipper this morning.”
“Am I?” Crowley smiles.
“Yes…” Aziraphale watches him with a slightly raised brow. “I was going to make some breakfast after I get dressed, would you join me?”
“I’ve actually got to…” Crowley searches for the right thing to say, “Head to the market. Pick up some more soil, and things.”
“This early?” Aziraphale slides a hand around his waist and rubs his back; suddenly Crowley feels overly large. “I would have liked to have a lazy day with you, darling. It’s such a pretty Sunday.”
“How about you sit outside with me while I garden, hm?” Crowley leans in to press a kiss to his head, breathing in the sweet smell of his shampoo. Aziraphale hums approvingly, and Crowley turns to grab his keys. “I’ll be back soon. Probably grab a coffee while I’m out, so don’t worry about breakfast for me.”
He came home nearly an hour after that. He hadn’t lied; he had gotten a coffee - though, it had no milk, no sugar, and no creamer. It was bitter, but by the time he had finished it, the idea of only having consumed five calories had made it sweet enough. He then set to the garden, where he wasted nearly four hours between pots, leaves and soil. He narrowly avoided lunch with the excuse of needing a shower, but Aziraphale made sure to save him a small helping. After lazing around with his angel for the rest of the afternoon, he picked lightly through his dinner. All together, his total intake was… roughly three hundred.
This continued for a week; wake up, weigh-in, black coffee, keep busy, pick through dinner, shower and go to bed. He began turning down bites of food the angel offered him, trading out his usual alcohol for less calorie-dense options. One queasy, dreary morning, Crowley stripped his clothes and stood on his scale to see… 70kg. He’d lost three kilos seemingly overnight? Any dizziness he’d had a moment prior was suddenly gone; he had done it. His chest alighted with pleasure, and his lips shook into a smile. Three kilos, and he’d been doing this no longer than a week?
Crowley stepped happily out of his greenhouse, his heart freezing when he came face-to-face with Aziraphale.
“You look happy,” he smiled, eyes drifting down his loose-fitting pajamas.
“Yes,” Crowley stuttered, “My… my lavender is finally starting to sprout.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Aziraphale sets his teacup on the outside table, hands finding Crowley’s hips as he leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. “These last few days, you have astounded me. Taking so well to human life, you’re so cheerful too. You’re making so much progress!”
“Yes,” Crowley feels his heart jump, mentally filing the praise away somewhere it probably doesn’t belong; “I seem to be.”
Aziraphale watches as he walks away, furrowing his brow slightly. He seems happy; much too happy. He might even say manic.
Perhaps the first thing that should have tipped Aziraphale off was when Crowley’s favorite red wine bottle was empty, instead of being replenished, it was replaced with a bottle of vodka. Or when, even when Aziraphale woke up at five in the morning, he found his sleeping partner gone - and returned later after a run, looking pale. It all seemed to come to a head in his mind on a quiet Friday night, on the couch with a movie that was playing, but wasn’t being paid any mind.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs softly, pressing his deft lips to his jaw. Crowley’s breath hitches, and he smiles beneath the angel’s lips.
“‘ngel,” he murmurs, a hand finding the back of his head and tangling into his hair, “that feels… mmh,”
“Quite articulate today, aren’t we?” Aziraphale chuckles lowly, nipping at his lover’s neck, and the demon in his lap laughs breathily. “You’re so lovely,”
“Shut up,” Crowley murmurs, leaning in and pressing a long, warm kiss to his angel. Aziraphale hums softly against the embrace and rubs his hands gently up Crowley’s sides; he seems to stiffen, and Aziraphale smiles softly. Must have tickled, he thinks, perhaps I need to be more direct... He slides his hand down Crowley’s chest before rubbing his hip, fingertips dipping under the hem of his shirt.
Crowley jolts and stands, his face red with arousal, but his eyes wide with shock.
“Darling?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrow. “What’s the matter? Did I make you uncomfortable?” he reaches a hand out, but the demon withdraws; Aziraphale’s heart stutters.
“No,” he says hurriedly, his chest rising and falling in a way Aziraphale may have equated with hyperventilation, “I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong,” his hand finds his stomach in a nervous gesture that may have been unconscious; he glances from the floor to the angel, searching. “I just feel… sick.”
Aziraphale watches as he retreats to the bathroom, feeling a strain in his heart he can’t place.
After that, Crowley found himself in the mirror much more often, watching with a guilty pleasure as the number on the scale dipped. 73, 65, 54… with the mania of his honeymoon phase gone, he had sunken into a deep pit of depression. Whenever he laid with his lover, he felt as though he was punishing him. Why should the angel have to touch his body, one that was so bloated and unloveable? He couldn’t be good enough until he lost more weight. After a few tense and dizzy months, it all seemed worth it when the scale finally fell below 45 kilos. His ribs and hipbones pulled taut against his skin, his collarbones and clavicle were filled with shadows that looked like pools of liquid; the thing he was most proud of, though, was finally being able to see his spine. Happy as he was, however, it all came tumbling down during an outing to the flea market on a warm summer day.
“Oh, Crowley, look at how darling,” he gushed, holding up a small clay pot.
“Yeah,” Crowley tugged at his shirt collar, red in the face. He was burning up, and parched, nearly thirty hours into a fast that he certainly didn’t want to break, but the day was starting to wear on him. Aziraphale frowns,
“Love, are you alright? Should we head home?”
“No, no,” he blurts. “Of course not, angel, we’re having a nice time out.”
“It doesn’t seem like it,” Aziraphale rests a hand on his arm, which he shies away from. He tries not to take this personally, but it seems to happen more and more lately; “you’re probably burning up in that coat.”
“I’m okay, I’m just really-” he falters, “really thirsty is all.”
Aziraphale studies his face, “have you eaten anything today, darling?”
“Yes, of course, I had some toast before we left the house,” Crowley responds effortlessly.
Aziraphale’s jaw sets. “We don’t have any bread.”
“Oh,” Crowley’s fidgeting stills, and his lips part in an anxious smile. “Don’t we? I could have sworn…”
“Crowley, that’s not going to work. You haven’t eaten, have you? You gardened through dinner last night, too, and your food was still in the fridge this morning. Why aren’t you eating?”
“I dunno,” he sways minutely, in a way that looks unnoticed by himself. “I just forget is all, I’m so busy, what with the garden, and… and exercising,”
“That’s another thing,” Aziraphale’s voice pitches, “You can’t exercise on an empty stomach, you’re going to hurt yourself! Crowley, do you understand how serious this is? Are you even listening?”
Crowley’s vision had blurred, and he began to feel like the ground desperately wanted to meet him - intimately. “Yes, a-angel, I’m listening. Can we… can we continue this conversation at- the cottage?”
There was a sudden pressure on his wrist that he didn’t care to investigate. His response was faint and far-away, “Crowley, you look like you’re going to– Crowley!”
Suddenly, finally, everything got quiet.
When he opened his eyes again, he was in the cottage, laying on his back - his jacket peeled away and hanging on a dining room chair. Aziraphale was sat primly in his reading chair, a book open in his lap - his eyes, Crowley noticed, moving far too quickly along the page to actually be reading anything. The room was quiet as he contemplated - this was the calm before the storm. He could pretend to still be asleep, but really, what good would it do?
He winced as he sat up, muscles sore from the not-so-friendly earth he landed on. Aziraphale’s eyes snap up to him and he puts his book down, standing and taking a step towards him,
“No, no, none of that. Sit back, rest. You’re shaking like a leaf.” He was; he’d just noticed, but with every move he made, his body shook like a stiff breeze would put him back down. He relented and fell back gently against the cushions.
“What… happened?” It was partially an investigation, because he wasn’t sure how much Aziraphale knew, and partially an honest question; he didn’t remember much after leaving the house that morning.
“We were having a bit of a spat and you fainted. Crowley,” he reaches behind himself and scoots the ottoman closer so he can sit on it, eyeing the demon intensely. “You fainted and I carried you home. No angelic strength, I carried you from the market place all the way home.”
Crowley fidgeted for a moment, “Well- should I say thank you?”
“You were light as anything, I didn’t break a sweat.”
“Good on you,”
“Crowley,” he half-sobs, and Crowley wants nothing more than to curl into a ball and die. “You’re forty-five kilograms.”
Crowley chooses not to respond to this, and only relents to look at the angel once his hunger-addled brain puts two and two together. “How do you know that?” It’s Aziraphale’s turn to go silent, his face set hard but unwilling to answer. “Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes, sensing the warmth of angelic magic in the air, “you didn’t. You can’t afford frivolous miracles–”
”Frivolous?” He gapes. “Making sure my lover isn’t dying is frivolous?”
Crowley scoffs lightly, “I’m not dying,”
“No, not yet,” Aziraphale bites, “you’re just fainting and ill and you’re doing it on purpose. Your wine is gone, you’re running til you’ve lost color in your face, you only eat small amounts, you’re making yourself sick after you do eat…” a single tear makes its way down his face, and Crowley’s stomach quivers. Aziraphale wipes it away feverishly and takes a shuddering breath, “Why?”
“I’m not–”
“Crowley, answer me. You can’t hide from it anymore, tell me why.” His voice drops to a whisper, ”please.”
Crowley turns his face away, subconsciously placing a hand on his stomach. “I don’t know,”
The cottage is silent, and Aziraphale takes a deep, calming breath. He holds his hand out, beckoning gently with his fingers until Crowley links them together. “How long?”
“Couple months,” Crowley rasps, not entirely sure if he meant to answer. Aziraphale tries not to let out another cry, and he presses on,
“You’ve lost twenty-eight kilograms in a couple months?” Crowley shrugs noncommittally. “How…” he pauses for a moment, phrasing his question carefully, “How low have you been restricting?”
Crowley says something under his breath, and Aziraphale squeezes his hand lightly. He speaks again, a bit louder, “‘bout five hundred. Sometimes less, sometimes none at all.”
“Five hundred calories?” Aziraphale repeats, and Crowley nods; it sounds so much worse coming from him. “Darling, that’s a fourth of what most people need,”
“I know,” Crowley rasps. “I’m… I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” it was a selfish question, and Aziraphale knew that, but he couldn’t help feeling somewhat betrayed. Crowley shook his head, and Aziraphale sighs. “Can I get you something? Will you take tea? Just something?”
“Coffee?” he asks pitifully, and he knows falling back on old habits isn’t going to help his case, but he can’t muster up anything else.
“You’ve been drinking a lot of coffee,” Aziraphale points out, rubbing his arm. “Is it a safe food?”
The idea that Aziraphale knows about things like restricting and safe foods should comfort him, but he feels like he’s quickly losing control all over again. He nods, not trusting his voice to stay steady. Aziraphale looks pained, but nods regardless, standing and walking to the kitchen. Crowley subconsciously hones in on the sounds - coffee pot, cup. No stirring, no extra clinks of containers. No milk or sugar. When Aziraphale walks back in and hands him the cup, he feels himself relax if only a bit - it’s as dark as usual, and after a small, careful sip, it’s just as bitter as he’s come to love.
“How do you drink that?” Aziraphale asks, and for a moment his voice pitches fussily, as it might have before any of this happened. Crowley smiles softly against the lip of the cup, and then his face falls as he remembers why he prefers it this way. Aziraphale catches the change in attitude and rubs his knee soothingly. “Nevermind me. Drink what you can.”
‘What he can’ is admittedly not much; even the idea of five calories makes his stomach twist up and nearly reject the warm drink all together, but he sets it on the coffee table and takes a slow, shaking breath. Aziraphale cups his face gently and presses a long kiss to his forehead,
“That was very good. Thank you,”
Crowley smiles weakly. “I’m tired,” he says. Aziraphale’s eyes narrow ever so slightly.
“Come on,” he offers him his hand as he stands, and Crowley takes it, being led to their bedroom. “I’ll not have you ducking into the bathroom to rid yourself of a few sips of coffee.”
Crowley winces, but doesn’t argue. “Would you… Stay with me?”
Aziraphale’s gaze softens, “Of course. Of course, darling.” They settle carefully into bed beside one another, and suddenly Crowley’s body gives a shudder. “What is it, love?”
“I’m cold,” he murmurs softly. “The sheets are cold, the blankets are cold…”
“Come here,” he whispers. “I know you don’t like when I… touch you, like this. But I’ll help warm you up.”
Crowley’s heart nearly fractures as the angel’s eyes reflect tears. “I never meant to make you feel–”
“Hush,” Aziraphale cuts him off, “come here.” He collects the demon in his arms, trying to stay calm as he feels bone against his skin. He hadn’t seen him without his clothes on in quite some time, and it was starting to make more sense. He cradled the back of his head, pressing kisses into his hair; they laid in silence for a while. Just when Aziraphale started to think he’d fallen asleep, Crowley broke the silence.
“I’m fine, you know,” he said quietly. Had the circumstances been different, Aziraphale may have laughed.
“You’re not,” he says softly, rubbing his back. Vertebrae caresses his fingers in return. “You’re sick, and I’m dreadfully sorry I didn’t see it before.”
“I’m fine,” Crowley says again, his lifeline as he feels all else slipping away.
“Darling,” Aziraphale sighs, shutting his eyes tight as if to will his tears not to fall. This wasn’t about him, but he couldn’t help feeling broken hearted, “rest, alright? We can talk more later.”
Crowley wrapped his arms around his angel, silent for the next couple of hours.
When his eyes finally opened again, he was cold, and it was dark. He shot up in bed, searching for Aziraphale and finding nothing. Had he left? Of course he did, that was daft, telling him things like that. He could have passed it off as a hangover, he could have lied, he could have… He was surely disgusted, now, Aziraphale; holding Crowley’s ugly body for that long while he listened to how stupid and insane he was. Crowley stands, clicking on the light and shedding his clothes, looking in the mirror - still as disgusting as ever, but now somehow more so after what happened. Fat clung below his navel, his thighs nearly touched, his face was bloated from crying; he couldn’t blame Aziraphale. He’d leave himself too if he could.
“Darling?” comes a voice on the other side of the door, Crowley jolts in surprise. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” Crowley pulls his clothes back on hastily, “I am. Look, angel, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-” he opens the door to find his lover clad in an apron, hands covered in flour, Crowley’s stomach clutches as he smells food from the kitchen. They stare at each other for a long moment, both acutely aware of what the other is thinking.
“Crowley–”
“Put something on, have you?” Crowley interrupts, feigning cheerfulness.
“I have,” Aziraphale says carefully. “For both of us.”
“Can’t expect me to eat after a fall like that, angel, I’m nauseous as anything,” he says casually. They look hard at each other, and Aziraphale is the first to crack.
“Darling,” he says breathily, his lip quivering minutely. “Please. You can’t pretend forever. Come eat,”
“I’m fine,” Crowley insists, not really having meant to say it. Aziraphale shakes his head,
“At least come sit with me while I eat?” silently, Crowley nods. It was a start, at least.
The kitchen smelled divine, Crowley can’t very well argue with that. It looked like Aziraphale had made pasta from scratch, and even his illness-ridden brain could appreciate such a feat. Aziraphale makes two plates, and Crowley grimaces; they sit at the table together.
“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” Aziraphale says softly. “I know it’s hard.”
“It’s very pretty,” Crowley says weakly, and Aziraphale smiles.
“I cook when I’m not feeling well,” he says. “It makes me happy to see my efforts go towards something pretty like this, and then I get to enjoy it, and share it with others.”
Crowley nods, looking down at the plate. He feels terribly that it’ll go to waste. Crowley watches Aziraphale as he eats, and for a moment, everything feels normal, as if they’re dining at the Ritz again. Once Aziraphale’s plate is cleared, he spares a glance at Crowley’s. Still full.
“What is it about this dish that worries you?” he asks plainly.
“I just,” he swallows hard. “I’m not hungry,”
“That’s not what I asked,” Aziraphale says. Crowley stares down at the plate and tries to ignore the heat in his face, the ball in his throat;
“I don’t know.”
“Is it the ingredients?”
“The calories, angel. It’s always the calories.”
“What if I told you that these were all low-calorie ingredients? Vegetable noodles, a light sauce…?”
“I wouldn’t believe you,” Crowley says quietly. “I’m sorry. I don’t trust food that I don’t make,”
Aziraphale frowns. “I understand. Are calories the only thing?”
“I don’t want to regress,” Crowley’s eyes water, and he mentally chastises himself. “I’ve made it this far. I’ve made it to this weight, I can’t go back.”
“One plate of pasta won’t make you gain back nearly thirty kilos,” Aziraphale says. “And even if it did, you wouldn’t be overweight. You’ve always been slim, but this is alarming. Am I correct to assume you don’t want to be overweight…?”
Crowley nods softly, tearing his eyes away from the plate in front of him. He wipes at his wet eyes frustratedly.
“But, darling, I’m fat.”
This makes Crowley’s head whip around, pupils slivers. “What? Who told you that?”
“Nobody,” Aziraphale smiles. “It’s just how it is. I don’t mind it, it’s not a defining feature. It just is. Do you love me less for it?”
“Of course not,” Crowley reaches out to lay a hand on his. “Angel, of course not. It’s just different… for me,”
“How?” Aziraphale counters. Crowley is silent for a moment, so he pushes, “Fat on my body is acceptable, but on yours it isn’t? Crowley, dear, you know that makes no sense. Help me understand, how is it different?”
“It just… is,” he flusters, “It’s different because you’re perfect in every way, whereas I’m not. I’m selfish and ugly and fallen, and I can’t change any of that, but I can change my weight. I can take what little control I have and make something change. I can be better for you,” he chokes and covers his mouth, eyes threatening to spill over.
“Dearest, you’re not any of those things.” Aziraphale squeezes his hand, “You are kind, and warm, and beautiful. You’re my beloved partner and I chose you on purpose, and I keep choosing you every day. You are perfect for me. And I think you deserve at least a bite of this.” he gestures to the plate with his chin; Crowley grimaces as the conversation comes back to food.
“I can’t,,” he begs.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not sick enough to recover. Because then I’ll lose the control I have,”
“Not sick enough?” Aziraphale begins, but then pins the second thought instead, knowing the first is too large a battle for this early. “This is control? Being unable to eat? Being a slave to numbers on a scale?”
Crowley’s pupils contract and he tenses, “Aziraphale…”
“You know I’m right,” he says, his face an unbecoming mix of grief and worry. He takes a long, shuddering breath and places his hand on top of Crowley’s. “Darling, I’m worried about you. Today, you passed out and didn’t wake up for an hour. What happens next time, Crowley? How long do I have to worry that you won’t open your eyes?”
“I’m not going to–” he starts, then drops his voice lower. “...discorporate.”
“And if you do? Do you think Beelzebub will hand you a new body, say, ‘here we are, Crowley, one half of the whole idiot who stopped the apocalypse, off you pop to bugger your angel’?”
Under any other circumstance, Crowley would have snorted at the tirade Aziraphale had just spat; he was decidedly not laughing, however, instead staring down at the plate of pasta that had offended him so. It was probably dreadfully cold by now.
“I’ll try,” Crowley says, almost inaudibly. He refuses to look at his angel’s face, which he is sure has just alighted with joy, “I can’t start like this, though. Not with something I didn’t make, not with pasta. It’s too much,” he chokes a bit on that last part, looking anywhere but the plate and his angel. “It’s too much.”
Aziraphale is silent for a moment before he stands, picking up the plate from the table. Crowley shakes as his tears finally slip down his overheated face. He makes no sound, however, afraid he has said the wrong thing; his worries are swiftly quelled when Aziraphale leans down and cups his face, pressing a long, sweet kiss to his lips. “I’m proud of you,” he says after pulling away mere millimeters, and the puff of his breath ghosts along Crowley’s lips, as if he’s breathing this promise into his very soul. He then walks the plate to the sink and begins to tidy up. Crowley wipes his eyes feverishly, sniffling; he stands, an anxious hand resting against his ribcage, feeling the hollow of bones there; it somehow soothes and enrages him. Once Aziraphale is finished with the dishes, he walks over and holds a hand out to Crowley; the demon tries to offer the hand unoccupied by feeling his bones, but Aziraphale gives him a gentle, albeit pointed look. Crowley ceases his ministrations and offers his dominant hand.
“It’s late,” he says softly. “We’ve worried the day away. Come to bed with me?”
“Oh, angel,” Crowley smirks lightly, “I’ll always take you up on that.”
“Depraved,” Aziraphale smirks.
They lay in silence for a long time; Aziraphale is nearly asleep when Crowley sits up, panting slightly, silhouetted from the soft moonlight outside.
“Dear?” he grumbles sleepily. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Crowley says a bit snappishly, pushing the blankets off of himself, “I’m just burning up.”
“You’re hot?” Aziraphale’s brows furrow. “Just a few hours ago, you were freezing.”
“I don’t know,” Crowley struggles his shirt off over his head, throwing it across the room. Aziraphale starts, and silently thanks whoever is listening that it’s too dark to see him - perhaps it’s a cruel thing to think, but he’s not sure he could handle seeing how emaciated he had become. Crowley buries his hands in his hair, taking long, deep breaths.
“Can I touch you? To be sure you haven’t got a fever.”
“‘Spose,” Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale presses his hand to his lover’s forehead,
“You feel chilly as ever,” he murmurs. “Must be a hot flash. Do you want some cold water?”
“Please,” Crowley moans softly. Aziraphale stands and wraps his robe around his waist, walking to the kitchen to pour Crowley’s glass. He also takes the ice pack out of the freezer, walking back into their bedroom; from the hallway, he can see the table lamp has been turned on.
“Crowley?” he says softly. “Can I come in?”
“Yes,” he says; Aziraphale walks in to find his lover sat on the wood floor, in a loose-fitting tank top and shorts, fanning himself with his hand.
“Dear,” Aziraphale frowns, “I know you feel hot, but you’re physically cold. You’re going to make yourself sick,”
A subconscious hand presses against his stomach, “poor choice of words,” he murmurs. Aziraphale drops to the floor beside him, handing him the glass of water.
“Here,” he says softly. Crowley takes the cup between thin fingers, and Aziraphale frowns to himself. He can’t help it; it comes out before he can stop it. “I love you,”
“I love you too,” Crowley murmurs against the lip of the glass before taking a long sip. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand, “you’re only saying that because you’re scared, aren’t you?”
“It isn’t a lie,” Aziraphale frowns.
“I know it’s not,” Crowley leans against Aziraphale’s shoulder. He speaks under his breath, almost inaudibly; “I’m scared too.”
“I know it shouldn’t, but that relieves me,” Aziraphale takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “When I brought you home, when we talked while you laid on the couch… I could see it in your eyes. You didn’t think it was bad,”
“I still don’t. That is, I know it isn’t good. But a part of me, some sick part, is telling me that I need to let this blow over, let you think I’m okay, and then jump right back into it. It’s addicting,”
“I’ve never seen you happier,” Aziraphale swallows thickly, “than what I assume were the first few weeks. When your wine disappeared, and you started going out more. You lit up. I hate that it was because of something like this,”
“I wasn’t happy,” Crowley rubs his thumb up and down the glass, through the perspiration, “I was manic.”
“How,” Aziraphale begins, then bites his lip. “How long were you going without eating?”
“My longest fast was forty-eight hours,” Crowley murmurs, his lips pulling up in a smile that he bites down almost immediately.
“Two days?” the angel’s voice is strained.
“Two days,” Crowley affirms.
“And I didn’t notice,” Aziraphale breathes. “I’m so sorry,”
“I was too good at hiding it. That night we went to dinner, at the, um… the diner on Redwood?”
“That night too?”
“No, I ate that night. It was a lovely date, I went easy on myself. But I restricted for two weeks leading up to it,”
“That’s going easy on yourself?”
“I redirect your attention to the fact that I fainted not a few hours ago,”
“I know,” Aziraphale intertwines their fingers. “How are you feeling now?”
“Much less like a boiling lobster, thank you. To bed?” he stands.
“Wait,” Aziraphale stands, cupping his lover’s face in his hands and pressing their lips together. Crowley starts, but leans into the embrace easily. When Aziraphale pulls back, he is graced with the sight of Crowley’s blown-out pupils lidded heavily with drowsy adoration, his lips pulled up in the subtlest of smiles.
“What was that for?” he murmurs, gaze switching from his lips to his eyes.
“I love you,” Aziraphale says, his voice steady. “I need you to know that you are perfect in my eyes. I know you’re hurting, but we’re going to fix this.”
Crowley is silent for a while before drawing a shuddering breath, leaning his forehead against his angel’s chest. “Thank you,” he mumbles lowly. “I’m sorry,”
“None of that,” he settles into bed and holds a hand out to his love. “Come on.” Crowley climbs in after him and lays against his chest, letting his breath even out.
The next time he woke, it was because the sunlight had dappled through the curtains, warming his skin; before he’s even fully awake, he’s out of bed, gone to the restroom, chewing his vitamins and heading for the greenhouse. It’s only when his hand finds the doorknob that he stops, remembering the past day; his stomach turns to ice, and his feet are stuck to the floor.
He wants to keep going. He wants to walk out, weigh himself, complete his morning ritual; it may be the last time he can do it. But he also wants desperately to turn around and crawl back into bed, rest against his angel’s soft flesh and not think about any of this. He’s frozen in place, a hand idly thumbing at his ribcage under his shirt.
One more time, that little voice calls. Just one more time. So you’ll know where you left off when you come back. When he comes back? As if relapse is inevitable? He doesn’t want this anymore, the brain fog, the cold, the nausea, the gnawing hunger, the soreness. He’s tired/
But you’re so close. Why stop now? You’ve seen that Aziraphale isn’t quick to pick up on it. Eat in front of him and fast all the rest of the time.
And if he faints again? If something worse happens? He can’t exactly run him to hospital, and the miracle energy needed to help him recover would be… unimaginable, at their current state. Aziraphale isn’t overreacting when he worries for him, Crowley could do some serious damage to his corporation.
But what if you start gaining again and he leaves you? What if he realizes that he’s come to love you as thin as this, and he can’t tell you that because it’d go against his angelic nature? Slowly, he begins to turn the doorknob.
“Crowley?” A soft voice from behind him. Crowley turns around, his eyes welling. “Oh, darling… What is it? Where are you going?”
“I need your help,” he says weakly.
Crowley stares down at the small collection of metals and gears that has been ruling his life, scowling slightly. The plants in the greenhouse shiver.
“Well?” Aziraphale prompts. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to weigh myself,” he says honestly.
“You want to?”
“I feel like I have to,” he sighs. “I’ve done it every morning for the past few months.”
“What do you suspect it will be?”
“Forty-five? Forty-three?” he rubs his arms. “Forty-seven, at the most.”
“So you know about what you weigh.”
Crowley takes a breath through gritted teeth. “Yes.”
“But you want to know the exact number.”
“Yes.”
“It’s an obsessive behavior that is only going to make it worse…” Aziraphale chews on his thumbnail. After a moment of thinking, he leans down and picks up the scale. Crowley feels his heart lurch and follows him as he walks into the house, placing the scale down in the living room, by the bookshelves. “I can’t very well get rid of it, or you’ll get a new one. But hiding it in your greenhouse is making you much too comfortable with hiding your disorder. If you must weigh yourself, you have to do it out here.”
“That feels,” Crowley breathes. “Terrifying,”
“Comfort is the opposite of progress, dear.” Aziraphale leans in and presses a kiss to his cheekbone. “Well? Do you still want to weigh yourself?”
Crowley stares down at the scale, then looks to the bookshelf. There are picture frames scattered on the shelves, books that have frayed spines, dust collecting on the shelves because neither of them can be bothered to break out the feather duster; a stack of letters lay beside their wedding photos.
“No,” Crowley lets out a breath, and he feels a weight lifting off his shoulders. Aziraphale wraps his arm around his lover’s shoulders and pulls him in, pressing a kiss into his wild auburn hair.
“That’s very good,” he murmurs, and Crowley can hear the smile in his voice. “Tempt you to some coffee?”
“Yes,” Crowley nods, tearing his gaze away from the scale. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
Aziraphale walks into the kitchen, setting to work making coffee; Crowley doesn’t trust his legs, so he sits on the stool near the breakfast bar, watching his husband with a smile. “I’m going to make some eggs as well,” he says carefully. “Would you…?”
Crowley’s stomach twists in knots as a number immediately pops into mind; a couple, in fact. “Could you,” he says with a wince, “boil mine?”
“Of course,” Aziraphale sets a pot on the stove, filling it with water while the coffee pot hisses and growls like an old, affectionate cat.
“You’re so beautiful,” Crowley murmurs, mostly to himself. Aziraphale ducks his head shyly and looks back at him,
“Thank you, darling. You’re quite fetching yourself,”
Crowley lets a smile tug at his lips and rests his chin on his fist. By the time the eggs are done - Crowley’s boiled, and Aziraphale’s fried - the coffee pot stops hissing and the angel pours two mugs. He gathers the milk and sugar where Crowley can watch them be made; he pours a spoonful of sugar, then mixes a splash of milk into his coffee. One quick glance at Crowley’s anxious eyes, and he smiles understandingly, putting the milk and sugar away and scooting the demon’s black coffee to him.
“Cheers,” he holds his coffee out and they clink their mugs together delicately. Aziraphale makes sure not to watch openly as Crowley eats, but he doesn’t miss how he removes the perfectly round yolks from the eggs and sets them on the plate, eating just the whites as he sips his coffee.
“Those bits intimidating?” he asks, not unkind. Crowley sighs and rolls it around on the plate.
“Yes,” he frowns. “Fifty-five.”
“You just know that?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley nods solemnly.
“Egg whites were thirty four,” he knows he shouldn’t do this, but he can’t help it. “Coffee is five.”
Aziraphale frowns, “I see.” He takes one of the little yellow balls between thumb and forefinger, as if inspecting it. “Never liked hard boiled yolks, myself, to be honest. Almost chalky, terrible texture.” He stands, taking their plates to the sink and rinsing them off. Crowley eyeballs Aziraphale’s coffee as he washes up, watching as the light, creamy liquid swirls in the mug. He jumps slightly as Aziraphale kisses the top of his head. “Do you want a sip?”
“No,” Crowley says instinctively. He sighs and rubs his thumb against his jawline, “I mean, I do. I’m just so scared,” Aziraphale sets his hands on his shoulders reassuringly,
“How many calories are in it, do you think?”
Crowley thinks back to when it was made, thinking about how much milk and sugar was used. “I think… seventy? Maybe less.”
“Mmh. And how much do you think would be in one sip?”
“Not enough to bother counting,” Crowley says absent-mindedly, then catches what he had said. He looks at Aziraphale, who smiles fondly.
“Still scary?” he asks lightly.
Trembling fingers wrap around the mug. Before it’s even near him, Crowley is gnawing at his lip, willing his eyes to stay dry. Seventy, seventy, seventy. But it’s just a sip, it’s nothing, it’s not going to ruin your progress, your progress of killing yourself? If anything, this is progress, it’s just coffee, it’s warm in my hands and everything has been so cold the last few months…
Porcelain against his bottom lip, followed by sweet warmth on his tongue. Why has he been torturing himself with black coffee?
Aziraphale can’t choke down his happy squeak, clapping his hands softly. Crowley swallows hard, setting the mug down on the counter, spinning the stool around to look at his angel as tears fall down his face, smiling widely; Aziraphale opens his arms in a wordless request, and Crowley all but falls against him, the pair giddy and laughing and oh, dear, there’s tearstains on Aziraphale’s robe…
“I’m so proud,” Aziraphale grins, petting Crowley’s hair, “you did so well,”
“It was good,” Crowley laughs tearfully. “It was so good, I forgot what good coffee tasted like.”
Aziraphale presses a kiss to his forehead, perhaps a bit open-mouthed and eager, but Crowley doesn’t mind.