Chapter Text
On the day following the apocawasn’t, Crowley and Aziraphale began to explore the possibilities of their new life, on their own “side”. And one of these new freedoms, they decided, included that of moving in together. Although they’d not quite said ‘I love you’, they certainly felt it for one another, and that had seemed like enough.
But now, Aziraphale could sense the luminous yellow eyes fixed upon him as he lazed in his cozy, overstuffed tartan armchair across the front room of the South Downs cottage he and Crowley had miracled into suitability for their respective tastes.
“Crowley, dear, was there something on your mind? It’s just, well, you seem to be staring rather intently...”
Crowley, for his part, was sprawled across an ornate black couch with large shimmering red studs which looked suspiciously like miracled rubies lining the edges. He hadn’t noticed the angel noticing his piercing gaze, thinking Aziraphale too engrossed in the frayed antique book he’d been reading to consider Crowley’s whereabouts.
“Ah, yes, well, angel, the thing is... the thing issss...” Crowley hissed as he fought to get out the words he’d already resolved to say. Although he knew he sounded drunk anyway, he was actually completely sober, as he’d intended to be when he finally made this particular declaration, “I love you. I knew I loved you all the way back in the Garden. And I’ve tried, I have, but I can’t just keep not saying it, I can’t. I know I’m a demon, and I know that in addition to being unforgivable, I’m unloveable. I am, and it’s fine, and I’m fine, and you can’t love me back, but I had to say it, so now it’s said.”
Had Crowley not averted his gaze immediately, wishing to avoid the look of utter rejection he was certain he would receive, he would have seen just how wrong his perceptions were. Aziraphale’s face betrayed nothing but a look of realization. Realization that Crowley had feelings for him, realization that it meant his own feelings were, in fact, reciprocated, and realization that Crowley had utterly no clue that this was the case.
Softly, as was Aziraphale’s nature, he lifted himself off the armchair and shuffled lightly over to Crowley, as though the demon (his demon, his demon whom he loved very much) might bolt. Slowly, Aziraphale placed one gentle hand on Crowley’s thin shoulder and the other on the demon’s angular face, soothingly stroking the high cheekbone there.
When Crowley’s serpentine eyes finally, reluctantly, met his, Aziraphale looked at him more adoringly than he had perhaps ever looked at anything before.
“Crowley, dearest, how you could ever think that you are not lovable is beyond comprehension. And how you could ever feel like I am incapable of loving you, well, it’s the daftest thing I’ve ever heard. I may not have realized my feelings quite as quickly as you did, my dear, but they were always there. I am a being of love, Crowley, and you are most certainly not unlovable, because I love you.”
A lingering moment of stunned silence followed as Crowley considered Aziraphale’s own declaration, and then...
“Too.”
“Sorry?”
“I said ‘too’. You love me too. I said it first, angel.”
“Yes, I suppose you did. Although I rather think I said it better, my dear.”
Crowley teasingly scoffed at that, then smirked and nodded his agreement.
In celebration of what had altogether been a pleasant start to the rest of eternity, Crowley was (easily, as always) able to tempt Aziraphale into a dinner of crepes and expensive wine. Crowley, for his part, stuck to his usual black coffee and alcohol routine, while Aziraphale tucked in to no fewer than five of the crepe varieties from the extensive menu.
It struck Aziraphale about two thirds of the way through his meal that Crowley spent most of their time dining peering intently at him, at his food, at his mouth, and at his food as it went into his mouth. He momentarily considered whether Crowley simply had a distaste for human food, or if there might be a deeper reason for his aversion to eating. How anyone could have a distaste for the glorious creation that was human cooking was incomprehensible to Aziraphale, that much was for certain.
He looked quizzically at Crowley, then tried, “We are celebrating, my dear boy, I must insist you try some of my creep suzette. It’s simply divine, and I should know.”
A genuine smile formed on Crowley’s lips at Aziraphale’s small joke. His angel really was adorable. Adorable, and blissfully unaware of the metaphorical demons that haunted his literal one. Crowley only hoped he could keep it that way.
“Oh angel, you like that kind of stuff, not me. Believe me, I get my pleasure just watching how happy it makes you. That’s all I need.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to deny you your pleasure, in that case.” Aziraphale never did take much convincing when it came to finishing a plate, particularly not one overflowing with carbs and powdered sugar. For this reason, Crowley decided to regard his successful avoidance of the food offered as a mutual win.
Back home later that evening, Aziraphale anxiously studied his reflection as he readied himself for the first time he’d share a bed with his love.
Angels didn’t need to sleep, per se, and Aziraphale had never really adopted this human tradition in the past, but Crowley seemed to enjoy the ritual of sleeping. And if Crowley wanted to sleep, and wanted to sleep next to Aziraphale, then Aziraphale would happily lay awake next to him all night, every night, forever.
Angels also didn’t ‘need’ to eat, per se. They could, theoretically, miracle their corporations into a “perfect” homeostasis continually and never require sustenance. Moreover, even if they didn’t bother to or didn’t feel right about miracling their form, it would still take an incredibly long time of overindulgence for extra weight to appear. Whereas humans gained and lost weight quite quickly, and could become ill by doing too much of either in certain cases, it would take millennia to even notice constant decadence on the part of an angel.
Unfortunately, millennia was exactly what Aziraphale had. Six of them, to be precise. He’d enjoyed the food in every single one. And now he found himself, post crepe indulgence, pawing the gut that Gabriel had previously scolded him for as he appraised his naked form in the mirror. Yes, the centuries had most definitely begun to creep up on him and seemed to settle themselves heavily and disappointingly around his midsection.
Crowley always looked so perfect, so put together. Aziraphale only hoped he wouldn’t lose his love when the demon finally saw all of his unsightly softness. He miracled himself a pair of tartan pajama bottoms and steadied himself with a deep breath before exiting the bathroom. He was, admittedly, a little taken aback by the sight that met him.
Crowley lay on his back in their king sized bed, a pair of black silk pajama bottoms tied around his waist, highlighting where his hipbones jutted out. His waist, too, dipped in underneath the ribs giving him an overall concave appearance. Aziraphale tried to reason with himself that, of course, laying on one’s back would accentuate an already slim figure, but he couldn’t deny that Crowley’s corporation didn’t look entirely well.
When they’d done the body swap in an effort to thwart heaven, hell, and their impending demise, Aziraphale had been far too modest to sneak any peeks at a shirtless Crowley. He was an angel, after all, and that wouldn’t have felt decent. So he was surprised, and moderately concerned, seeing for the first time just how frightfully thin his demon was.
“Coming to bed, angel?” Crowley drawled and motioned for the angel to join him.
“Yes, I rather think I shall.” Aziraphale smiled warily as he moved across the room and into the large bed. Crowley had liked the dark coloring of its mahogany wood, and Aziraphale had liked the fancy canopy top.
Crowley rolled over as Aziraphale slid into bed behind him, drawing Aziraphale in closer to spoon him until the notches of his spine were flush with Aziraphale’s portly stomach. Aziraphale melted into the cuddle and instinctively wrapped his arms around Crowley. Although he was terribly self conscious about how flabby his gut must feel against Crowley’s bony back, he had no intention of pulling away.
Crowley was incredibly relieved that, at least for now, it appeared that Aziraphale assumed he miracled his form to look like this. It was better if Aziraphale assumed that, less questions and complications.
In actuality Crowley had done much the same, yet opposite, thing Aziraphale had. Although he did enjoy changing his hair and clothes more often than Aziraphale, he had never had the desire to miracle his corporation into perfect health. Truth be told, he liked the effects that millennia of starvation had on his form. Certainly they’d been less drastic than on, say, a human. But just like Aziraphale had begun to show extra weight over many centuries, Crowley had begun to look more gaunt than he should.
At first, Crowley hadn’t eaten and hadn’t miracled his corporal form into homeostasis out of a sort of punishment, a self loathing after the fall. He had liked food in heaven. He remembered how good it had been for quite a while. And then it wasn’t as good, and he’d begun hanging around with the wrong people, and asking questions. And then he sauntered downward.
Early on, he just hadn’t felt any desire to miracle the sustenance into his body in order to keep it healthy without eating, as most angels and demons do. And the thought of actually eating had made him physically ill, as the emotional turmoil attached to it was unbearable. No, he didn’t deserve food, and he didn’t deserve to waste miracles keeping his body healthy in its absence either. Emptiness had made him feel pure, and closer to the God he was cast away from.
As the millennia ticked by, however, he’d found that his motivations made a curious shift. After a thousand, maybe two thousand, years the physical repercussions started to become more visible. Crowley had been slim to start and had a naturally narrow bone structure, but he’d felt an inexplicable rush of excitement as his collarbone became increasingly sharp, and his ribs began to stick out grotesquely from his chest and back.
He wished he still could still see avoiding food as punishment, and avoiding miracling his body healthy as a form of penance, but he didn’t. Now, he just saw it as beautiful, as victorious, as a goal. But Aziraphale didn’t need to know that, it would only upset him and Crowley couldn’t bear to upset his sweet, perfect angel.
“You’re warm, feelsss nice, ‘m usually ssso cold” Crowley allowed his natural hiss to come out as he relaxed in the comfort of Aziraphale’s chubby arms.
“Yes, well, I’ve got quite a great deal more padding than you... the humans seem to benefit, heat wise, from having some body fat, dearest. Perhaps they don’t need quite so much as I have...” Aziraphale paused, considering with a pit in his stomach whether he should finish his thought or not, “but you don’t appear to have any at all, darling. You’re bone thin. It’s no great wonder that you’re terribly cold all the time.”
The words hung in the air for what felt like a long while, but was perhaps 30 seconds in reality. Crowley felt his heart racing, frantically thinking of ways to deflect this conversation as quickly and effectively as possible.
“I was a snake, remember, angel? Snakes are cold blooded.” Crowley shrugged, hoping his cool headed (pun intended) response would effectively appease Aziraphale for the time being. It seemed to.
“Right, of course, I’m being silly. Well, then I shall hold you extra close while you sleep, my dear serpent.”
“Goodnight, my beautiful angel.”
Although Crowley couldn’t see it, Aziraphale winced at his use of the word ‘beautiful’. Aziraphale lay there, long after Crowley had succumbed to slumber, thinking about just how not beautiful he was. How his pudgy belly rested up against his slim partner. Aziraphale imagined Crowley being disgusted by his extra weight, but being too nice (even if he hated that word) of a demon to say anything about it.
Aziraphale was sure of one thing, there was no way Crowley could really think he was beautiful. Aziraphale reasoned that Crowley was willing to put up with Aziraphale’s rather loathsome figure only because he loved him, not because he was physically attracted to him. It occurred to Aziraphale that evening, as his thumb subconsciously stroked the hills and valleys of his lover’s protruding rib cage, that perhaps he should heed Gabriel’s admonishment and ‘lose the gut’.