Chapter Text
The day after his procedure, Crowley noticed two enormous bruises on his thigh, two small bruises on his upper arm, and one bruise where the IV had been. They were a sickly yellow in the middle, with blue patches spreading out towards the edges. The doctors had probably manhandled him while he was unconscious, which made him feel a bit weird if he let himself think about it for too long. He knew his body was fragile right now, and that moving an unconscious human simply took a certain amount of strength, but it was odd to think how he’d been entirely at their mercy. Crowley didn’t like being out of control. Sadly, he was beginning to learn that being sick was just that: a complete loss of control.
Now that he had a preliminary diagnosis, Crowley could finally do some proper research to understand his symptoms. Apparently, weight loss due to reduced appetite was very common for those suffering from Crohn’s Disease. How his GP had missed the warning signs for as long as she had was beyond him. He also learned that his body was burning more calories than a healthy body due to the continuous flares, which only served to further exacerbate the weight loss.
While it was strangely reassuring to know that weight loss and Crohn’s went hand in hand, this new knowledge didn’t actually change anything. Crowley still barely had an appetite, and there were only a few types of food he could still tolerate. The numerous articles and blogposts he scanned through all claimed different things when it came to safe foods, and they all disagreed on which foods were most likely to cause a flare-up. Crowley concluded that dairy and eggs were generally considered safe, and that products high in fibre, like seeds and nuts, were best to be avoided. As he continued to read up on this, Crowley quickly realised that he wasn’t going to have much choice left; almost all his go-to fruits and vegetables were either riddled with seeds, had fibrous skins, or were guilty of both. Cucumbers and tomatoes were seed-city, raw vegetables were discouraged in general, eliminating lettuce as well, and then there were the cruciferous vegetables, like kale and broccoli.
All this meant that Crowley spent the following weeks eating variations of white pasta or rice with grated cheese, full-fat butter and a boiled egg. He had boiled carrot and mashed potatoes for dinner about three times and never wanted to ever put the mushy stuff in his mouth ever again.
Breakfast became a single slice of toast with butter and a herbal tea—since caffeine was apparently best left off-limits as well. Lunch was usually a grilled cheese, but only if he had the energy to make it or if he was lucky enough for Aziraphale to come home in his lunch hour.
He’d already stopped snacking a while ago, since nothing he used to eat still appealed to him. The last time he’d indulged in some junk food must have been several weeks ago, before he’d even known about his inflammation values.
Each night, Crowley sat at the table with Aziraphale, fighting his way through the softly-cooked food on his plate. Eating had become the biggest chore of Crowley’s day. It cost him so much energy just thinking about it and planning it all out. Add the fear of flaring up on top of that, and he’d sometimes just rather not eat at all. He never skipped the three main meals though, no matter how much aversion roiled through him, but he wasn’t sure he would have had the strength to keep it up if it hadn’t been for Aziraphale.
His partner was worried, and rightly so. Crowley’s face was hollow, the bags under his eyes matched the colour of his dark clothes, and his chest, arms and legs were truly just skin and bones. Crowley no longer had the energy to perform even the simplest of tasks. He only brushed his teeth before bed, hadn’t showered in two weeks, and only did a quick whore’s bath at the sink when he’d neglected his personal hygiene to the point that he felt a moral responsibility to Aziraphale, who would cuddle him even when Crowley stank like a teenage boys’ locker room.
All household chores were up to Aziraphale now, too. Crowley couldn’t clean, could barely tidy up his own mess, and frankly barely ever left the sofa. He cooked dinner out of guilt, for he was very aware of the burden his illness put on Aziraphale, but even the tidying up was left to his partner.
Aziraphale never once complained. He tried to relieve as many of Crowley’s burdens as he could and took on as much as possible while also running the bookshop. He comforted Crowley in the evenings, reminded him to eat, and went out of his way to make sure all of Crowley’s safe foods were stocked at all times.
Most days, Crowley was a miserable heap of self-pity and guilt, curled up on the sofa and napping the day away. His stomach was bloated more often than not these days, the lower part of his abdomen feeling rock-solid and like he’d swallowed an egg whole. Crowley wasn’t completely sure what this meant, as this feeling wasn’t always followed by a flare-up, but he did know it was a clear sign from his gut: it wasn’t happy.
Part of him wanted to step onto that scale in the bathroom every single morning, and for a few days, that’s exactly what he did. Seeing that jarringly low number did weird things to Crowley’s brain. Thankfully, he gathered enough courage to tell Aziraphale about this a few days later. His partner helped him stick to one weigh-in a week—every Tuesday from now on—and helped keep his scary thoughts in check. Crowley knew it wasn’t healthy. The thoughts frightened him. All his life, he’d been convinced that these thoughts were something that only happened to other people. He was happy with his body, his weight, his lifestyle. Looking in the mirror had never been a harrowing experience. And while that wasn’t entirely true anymore now that he was severely underweight, looking in the mirror still wasn’t the thing that caused the scary thoughts. It was that damned number on the scale. Seeing it decline was addicting, and it was terrifying as all fuck.
Crowley had never been more glad he had finally started seeing a therapist.
***
The results from the tissue samples came back two weeks after Crowley’s procedure. He and Aziraphale were once again at the hospital, this time to talk to his specialist. It was the fourth appointment in the same number of weeks, not that he was keeping count. At the very start of the appointment, the doctor officially confirmed the preliminary results. From this day forward, August 6th would be the day Crowley had officially been diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease.
The doctor had been very nice and understanding and had taken her time to explain to Crowley what the next steps would be. She’d shown a lot of empathy when Crowley got choked up, and had even addressed Aziraphale to acknowledge how difficult it must be to see his partner slowly waste away.
Since Crowley was pretty much losing weight exponentially at this point, the doctor had paged his dietician to the room. She had brought a bag of nutritional drinks. “Astronaut’s food,” they called it. Crowley was supposed to drink three bottles a day to try and get his weight up. Each bottle was about 200ml and contained 400 calories. They came in flavours ranging from strawberry to coffee to carrot & ginger, and there was even one called ‘piña colada’. Crowley supposed it would at least give some variety to his bland routine.
***
“Crohn’s disease,” Crowley muttered not much later as he and Aziraphale left the doctor’s office. “All this time, it really was fucking Crohn’s disease.”
Aziraphale guided him down the corridor with a gentle hand on his back, away from the gastroenterologist’s office and towards the hospital’s exit. “Mind the sign,” Aziraphale warned softly, steering Crowley around all obstacles while he let him process his diagnosis.
“I mean,” Crowley continued, gesturing his hand about, “why the fuck did it take the GP an entire fucking year to think, hey, maybe it’s not just stress. Maybe we should look into this.” Aziraphale rubbed his back. “Let’s just leave Crowley in terrible pain for months on end, he’s managing just fine!” They reached the revolving doors. Aziraphale let the elderly couple before them go through first and then helped Crowley find his way outside without walking into the heavy glass panes. “One blasted stool sample, Aziraphale. That’s all it took to find out something was wrong!”
“I know, dearest.” Aziraphale gave his arm a squeeze and left him standing next to the pay and display machine as he went to pay the parking ticket.
Crowley didn’t know why complaining was the very first thing he did upon getting his official diagnosis. He definitely felt relief. Even though he had been convinced for the longest time that the stress was the main root of his problems, as soon as his GP told him about his sky-high inflammation value, he knew something else was up. He’d got an insistent itch at the back of his brain. It had been a few months since he quit his job, and his symptoms had barely changed. It had made him question what his GP had told him all those months. Why couldn’t she have ordered a stool test sooner?
“The Bentley is just around the corner,” Aziraphale said when he’d finished paying.
Crowley dug his hands into his pockets, gave an absentminded nod, and started towards the car.
They pulled the doors shut behind them, blocking out the chattering from patients and visitors outside. A strange tranquillity washed over them now that they were alone again.
Aziraphale didn’t fasten his seat belt. He put the bag with nutritional drinks on the backseat, then turned to Crowley, his eyes wandering over his face. “Are you all right?”
Crowley folded his arms over the steering wheel and slumped forward, burying his face. “I’m mad,” he murmured into his arms. “And relieved. And sad.”
Aziraphale gave an empathetic hum.
A plump hand landed on the back of Crowley’s head, tenderly stroking his hair. “It’s an awful lot to process all over again,” Aziraphale said gently, “isn’t it?”
Crowley sighed. “Yeah.”
It seemed that was all he was doing lately. Processing, processing, processing. No wonder he was so bloody tired all the time.
“When we get home,” Crowley said, the sound of his voice muffled, “can we just sit on the sofa and watch telly all day?”
The warm hand gave his neck an affectionate little squeeze. “We can do whatever you want, my love.”
Crowley hummed and slowly lifted himself up from the steering wheel. He sought out Aziraphale’s eyes—an easy feat, since they were focused on him with full attention—and found a small smile form on his lips. Aziraphale was here. He would always be here. Crowley wasn’t alone, they could get through this together. “I want to go home,” Crowley said.
Even though Crowley’s chest felt like it was filled with lead, the heavy feeling smothering all chances at lighter thoughts, the warm smile he received in response still managed to soften the sharpest edges.