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Chapter Text

“Angel? D’you think I could have irritable bowel syndrome?”

Crowley had been scrolling on his phone for the better part of an hour when he saw an IBS meme that resonated with him a bit too well. It had been months since he quit his job, and his symptoms had barely improved, if at all. Despite getting rid of most of the stress in his life, he still got flare-ups with intense stomach pain and nausea. And due to how frequently he lost his appetite, he didn’t seem to be able to stop the weight loss either. IBS wasn’t an unlikely explanation at all, especially since this condition seemed to be triggered by a dysregulated nervous system.

Aziraphale closed his book and put it aside. He put a hand on Crowley’s shin, which was resting on top of his lap. “The thought has certainly crossed my mind,” he said gently. “Although I do wonder why your doctor has never mentioned it as a possibility.”

Crowley sniffed. “I—Well—I haven’t really talked to her since I quit my job. As far as she knows, it was ‘just stress’ and I got rid of the culprit.” Crowley half-expected Aziraphale to admonish him, but of course his partner showed him nothing but support and understanding.

“Then maybe it’s time we make an appointment, since your symptoms haven’t improved. I can accompany you again, if that would soothe some of your anxieties.” Aziraphale gave his leg a small squeeze.

Unlike last time, Crowley didn’t argue. Aziraphale had been there for him during every flare-up, every appointment and every breakdown he’d had in the past eighteen months. He could no longer imagine doing any of it without him.

“Yeah,” he replied quietly, taking Aziraphale’s hand into his own, “that’d be nice. Thanks, angel.”

***

Crowley was making dinner when the phone rang. It was awful timing. He was making pasta, and it had to be drained right now.

He spared one glance at his screen and felt his heart drop. The GP. He turned off the hob in a last moment of clarity, wiped his hands on his jeans and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Crowley, hi. This is Doctor Moore. Is this a convenient time to talk?”

No, he was in the middle of making dinner, and they didn’t have a phone call scheduled. “Yeah.”

“Perfect, thank you.” The sound of a computer mouse clicking through several tabs sounded in Crowley’s ear. “All right, so I got back the results from your stool test.”

Crowley’s heart picked up pace. After the appointment Aziraphale had scheduled with the doctor, she had suggested that Crowley should get his blood drawn. When those tests came out clear, her final idea was a stool test. After all his years on earth, he’d never thought he’d have to drive to the pharmacy with his own faeces in a little plastic bottle. Humbling.

Crowley took a deep breath. “Ok.”

“As you know, this test measures the inflammation value of your bowels by checking the calprotectin protein.”

Could this woman not just get to the bloody point? “Yeah.”

“So, just as a point of reference,” the doctor continued, sounding calm and like she had all the time in the world, “healthy bowels have calprotectin levels below 50.”

“Ok.”

“Yours were 740.”

Don’t swear at your doctor, don’t swear at your doctor.

“I—Blimey. That is—” Crowley shook his head. “Wow.” He grabbed the nearest pen and scrap of paper and jotted down the number.

“It certainly explains your weight loss and why you’ve been feeling so unwell,” the doctor said, sounding a lot brighter than Crowley felt. No, he felt like the rug had just been pulled out from under him.

“Right, yeah.” He had been doing extensive research on IBS the last few weeks and couldn’t help asking a clarifying question. “And, erm, IBS doesn’t come with inflammation like that, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Eighteen months. Eighteen months, he’d believed stress had been making him ill. For almost two years, Crowley had believed he’d been the problem. His weak nervous system, his anxious disposition. All this fucking time, something had been wrong. It hadn’t been him.

“All right,” the GP continued when Crowley remained unresponsive, “I’m going to refer you to a gastroenterologist who is going to see you as soon as possible. You’ll most likely have a colonoscopy, which will hopefully give you some more answers and help you find a way to feel better as soon as possible!”

Crowley could feel the colour drain from his face. Behind him, the door to the kitchen opened and closed. A soft patter of footsteps came closer until Aziraphale was at his side, giving him a curious look.

Crowley pointed at the information he’d scribbled down on the paper with a trembling finger. “Erm, ok,” he said to the doctor. He listened to her final well-wishes and mumbled a last “Thanks, bye,” before he hung up the phone.

With his heart battering against his sternum, the very first thing on Crowley’s mind was, for some reason, to drain the pasta. Maybe he should have made soup instead of pasta though. He could have made a great bone broth from his ribs that seemed close to bursting through his skin and tumbling to the floor.

“Was that Doctor Moore?” Aziraphale asked, still standing at the island where Crowley had left him.

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbled again, focusing way more attention than necessary on draining the pasta.

“I thought I recognised her voice.” Aziraphale’s voice was gentle as he walked around the island. He softly took the pot from Crowley’s hands, put it back on a cold hob, and guided him towards one of the bar stools. “Did she have any news?”

Crowley absent-mindedly took a seat and gave a sharp nod at the scrap of paper before him.

“740?” Aziraphale looked at him with his brow furrowed.

“Yup.”

“Are they the results from the test?”

“Yup.”

“Are they—That is, is it—Err.”

Crowley swallowed down the sour bile in his throat. “‘S not good, no.”

His partner came to stand closer at his side and put a grounding hand on his back. “What does it mean, dearest?”

The adrenaline tried finding its way out of Crowley’s body through a long sigh, but his heart kept wrecking his insides. “Means my bowels are inflamed as all fuck.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale fully wrapped his arm about Crowley’s shoulders now and pulled him against his side. “What else did she tell you?”

Crowley took another trembling breath and blew it out like a sputtering engine. “Gonna need a colonoscopy.”

“I see. And did she say what could be causing this kind of inflammation?”

“No.” Finally, Crowley raised his gaze to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “But it’s not IBS.”

Aziraphale’s face was scrunched together with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, darling.” He gave Crowley another squeeze. “How are you feeling?”

Crowley sniffed and made the snap decision to deflect, not wanting to tell Aziraphale that he felt like his world had just been turned upside down. If he did, they’d inevitably end up talking about it. Knowing Aziraphale, he wouldn’t let the topic rest until he was satisfied Crowley had processed all his feelings. And so he grumbled, “Like dinner just got ruined,” and continued to stare daggers at the pot of pasta that had been cooked to mush.

“Oh, nonsense,” Aziraphale tutted. “We have plenty of rigatoni left. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the sofa, and I will make sure they are perfectly al dente in just a few minutes?”

A scoff left Crowley’s lips before he could help it. Leave it to his best friend to drop everything he was doing to lend Crowley a helping hand. “Yeah,” he gave in after a mental battle between his guilt and his overwhelmed senses. “Ok.”

Aziraphale stroked his palm down Crowley’s back while he got up from the stool. “How about we talk about it after dinner, hm? Give you some time to process the information first.”

All Crowley was able to give him in response was a throaty grumble as he dragged his feet to the sofa. Blast his perfect, queerplatonic partner for knowing him so well. He’d probably be right, too. Once Crowley had some food in him and some time to let the news sink in, he’d most likely want to talk it through with Aziraphale. They’d probably end with a good hug and a comforting drink, maybe put on one of his comfort shows if he was lucky. Yeah, he was already feeling a little better just thinking about it.

Chapter Text

The gastroenterologist was able to see Crowley as early as the following week. He first had to have his blood drawn and hand in another stool sample on Monday, so the intake with the specialist two days later already marked his second appointment at the hospital. He had a feeling there were many more to come.

As Doctor Moore had predicted, the gastroenterologist indeed wanted Crowley to have a colonoscopy. On top of that, however, they were going to perform a gastroscopy. Crowley tried his best not to think about complete strangers shoving a camera up and down his body from both sides, but it was proving rather difficult. The upside of needing to get both, however, was that his specialist had decided that a mere local anaesthetic wouldn’t be enough to avoid discomfort. This meant, much to Crowley’s relief, that they were going to put him to sleep, so he didn’t have to be conscious for the moment things were going to get…inserted into his body. The downside to all of this, though, was that the procedure required him to cleanse his bowels. After two days of eating very light foods, Crowley was about to take his first dose of laxative tonight. He’d never had to do bowel prep before, but he’d heard stories. Bad stories.

Since Crowley’s situation was getting dire, the colonoscopy had been planned as early as two weeks after the intake with his specialist. In those two weeks, Crowley had mainly spent his time obsessing over the endoscopies, at least when he wasn’t busy with phone calls from the anaesthesiologist, the pharmacy, or his newly-appointed dietician. He’d never been treated at a hospital before. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a hospital, save for that one time Aziraphale needed a scan to check on an old shoulder injury.

Rationally, he knew that endoscopies were an extremely routine procedure. He wasn’t even actually afraid that something would go wrong. The annoying thing was, he didn’t know what he was afraid of. All he did know was that for the last two weeks, anxiety had been gnawing at him every waking moment.

Tonight was no different, except that the source of his anxiety was one very specific thing: the pint of laxative mixture. He’d been on a liquid diet for a few hours and had to stop consuming food altogether at six p.m. The smell of Aziraphale’s creamy pasta had been torture. Not because he was hungry, mind. No, Crowley hadn’t had proper food in three days, so the thought of all that grease and all those carbs was enough to make his stomach turn.

“You’ve simply got to start, dear,” Aziraphale said, scraping clean the last bit of sauce from his plate with dedication and precision.

Crowley sniffed the milky white concoction in his glass and scrunched his nose. “It smells rank.” Ok, so maybe that was a slight exaggeration. It smelt sweet, mostly. Not that bad. But still, it was the idea of it, combined with the horror stories he’d read online.

Aziraphale got up from his chair to clear away his plate. “It’s not going to get any better, you know? The taste and smell are going to be exactly the same thirty minutes from now.”

Grumbling, Crowley took the glass to the sitting room and plopped down on the floor. Unlike Aziraphale, he needed floor time now and again. Drinking a shitting potion definitely felt like a floor-time kind of occasion.

“I hate it when you use logic on me,” Crowley grumbled. Then, he put the straw in his mouth and sucked until the liquid just about coated his tongue. It was heavy and sweet, with just a slight hint of something fruity. “Hm.”

Aziraphale took a seat on the sofa behind him. “And?”

“‘S not too bad, I suppose.”

“See?” his partner’s voice sounded from behind him, already entirely too smug. “You can’t believe everything they say on the internet.”

Crowley hummed dismissively and took another sip. As instructed by his doctor, the pint of liquid was cold to make the taste more palatable. He also had to drink it in small sips to avoid nausea and was supposed to take roughly sixty minutes to finish the glass.

Perhaps all the instructions beforehand had been the cause of Crowley’s apprehension and overthinking. No wonder he’d been stressed about this, when everyone around him had been preparing him for something foul.

But then he took another sip, and a full-body shudder roiled through him. A miserable sound left his lips.

He heard Aziraphale shift on the sofa. “Everything all right?”

Crowley gulped, remnants of the laxative still sticking to his throat, and shook his head with short bursts as if that would get rid of the taste. Another shudder made him jump to his feet and rush to the kitchen.

When he returned with a big glass of water, one of the other recommendations to wash away the taste, Aziraphale was looking at him. Worry shone faintly in his eyes. “I am inferring that the taste may not be very good after all.”

Crowley took a swig of water and tried to shake the final memory of the laxative out of his body. “You’re inferring correctly.”

The offending mixture stared at him from the coffee table. The glass didn’t look any less full than when Crowley had poured the mixture in. How was he ever going to wash away a pint of liquid that made him want to gag just thinking about it?

“What does it taste like?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley pulled a face. He let himself fall towards the sofa until his back rested next to Aziraphale’s legs. “I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s just…bad. Really bad. Repulsively bad. So bad I think I’d rather drink toilet water than an entire glass of mango juice or whatever this is supposed to taste like.”

A warm hand on his shoulder. “I wish I could say something to make it better, dearest, but I fear the only way out is through. You cannot get your endoscopies tomorrow if you do not have clean bowels.”

“Thanks, Mr Reasonable,” Crowley sneered. “That’s really fucking helpful.” It wasn’t fair, he knew that. But his anxiety was beginning to send him into another spiral, and it made him act unfairly. He felt so comfortable around Aziraphale that he didn’t have any filter when it came to the things he said. Unfortunately, this meant that he not only said all the sweet and soft thoughts he harboured for his best friend, but also every thought fuelled by his fear, frustration and insecurity.

“Crowley.” It was spoken softly, frustratingly patient, gentle around the edges from the love poured into the syllables. Aziraphale understood him. Knew him. Most importantly, he didn’t allow Crowley to push him away. “You have to try, darling.”

“Hnnhgn.” He was right, of course. He usually was. Crowley gave a minuscule nod in surrender and put his lips to the straw again. This time, he was ready for his body’s reaction. He swallowed the drink and immediately grasped his water to wash it down. Still, a shiver ran through him. He groaned and made a pathetic sound, not unlike a toddler eating a yucky vegetable.

“Well done,” Aziraphale praised him, squeezing his shoulder with the hand that had never left its perch. “I’m proud of you.”

“Hmpf. Still have 95% of the pint left to go. At this rate, it’s gonna go in one way and out the other before I’m even halfway finished.”

This was, unfortunately, exactly the situation Crowley found himself in thirty minutes later. Bare arse on the toilet, clutching his glass of water in one hand and the laxative in the other. The latter didn’t seem to ever come to an end.

Eventually though, his body now stiff and sore from being glued to a porcelain bowl, it was done. He’d emptied the entire glass and, not much later, his bowels were done emptying themselves.

The rest of the evening was surprisingly peaceful. He and Aziraphale watched a film, Crowley had to make two more trips to the bathroom, and they went to bed before midnight.

The peace wouldn’t last long, Crowley knew. There was a round two to the whole laxative process, and it had to start at 5:45 am.

***

Getting up this early wasn’t as hard as Crowley had expected. Perhaps it was the nerves. Which was ridiculous, really. He wasn’t even going to be conscious for the procedure.

Or maybe it was the fact that he’d left his warm cocoon of safety to voluntarily subject himself to another pint of torturous poison.

Dramatic? Yes. Exaggeration? Absolutely not.

Luckily, Aziraphale had agreed to stay in bed this morning. The last thing Crowley wanted was for his partner to get up before dawn just to hold his hand through something he was absolutely supposed to be able to handle by himself.

He just had to drink 500 millilitres of some too-sweet, too-heavy liquid, and he’d be ready. Since the first time had taken him considerably longer than the hour prescribed by the instructions, Crowley had made sure to get out of bed a bit earlier to allow himself some more time and therefore less stress to finish all of the laxative in time for his appointment at 10 am.

Just like yesterday, the first sip wasn’t that bad. The mixture had a different flavour, for one thing. It was still sweet, fruity and unnaturally heavy, but at least it was different.

The second sip was already a bit worse.

The third sip had Crowley gagging and blindly grasping his water to flood the taste from his mouth. This was going to be a hellish morning.

He put on one of his comfort shows, draped a blanket over his lap, and tried to gaslight his brain into tolerating the laxative. It didn’t go very well.

By the time thirty minutes had passed, Crowley hadn’t even managed to drink a quarter of the liquid, yet he could already feel it taking effect. He once again brought his two glasses to the bathroom and set up camp on the toilet: one glass in each hand for ultimate efficiency. A worrisome feeling began growing at the back of his throat, a silent killer creeping up his body. He was starting to get nauseous, something he hadn’t experienced yesterday.

The clock was ticking. He wasn’t allowed to have any more liquid past 8 am, and he still had to drink an entire litre of water after finishing the laxative. He was running out of time.

The nausea grew stronger. His heart was beating an anxious rhythm against his ribs. He had to push through, had to finish the laxative. Except, the second he gulped down the next sip of laxative, everything in him told him to stop. Screamed at him to stop. Something was going wrong. He couldn’t do it.

His bare cheeks not leaving the toilet, Crowley bent forward and placed the two glasses on the floor. Oh, he felt like absolute shit. Somehow, this nausea was even worse than when he got one of his flare-ups. During his flare-ups, he at least wanted to vomit. Right now, he was doing everything in his power to not throw up the laxative.

A quick check of his phone showed him it was already 7 am. He was falling severely behind schedule. Fuck.

Most of England still seemed to be sleeping, nothing but the sound of early birds chirping in the trees outside. But then there was a shuffling sound in the hallway. A door opening and not closing.

“‘Ziraphale?” Crowley called out.

The shuffling stopped. “Are you in the bathroom?” his partner replied, voice still rough with sleep.

“Yeah. Can you come inside?”

“Are you decent?”

“No.”

“All right, I’m coming in.”

The second his partner walked through the door, Crowley felt every bit of his resolve to push through the nausea crumble.

“What is it, darling?” Aziraphale asked, sitting down on the rim of the tub next to the toilet.

“I can’t do it, angel,” Crowley forced out, panic seizing his throat. “‘M so nauseous. So nauseous.”

Aziraphale carded a careful hand through Crowley’s hair. “You do seem a bit pale. How much have you managed so far?”

Crowley dipped his chin, indicating the glass he’d left before him on the cold bathroom floor.

“Oh dear, that really isn’t a whole lot, is it?”

Crowley managed a miserable groan. “I am—I am—” he panted. “I am this close to puking. One more sip’s gonna push me over the edge. Don’t—don’t wanna puke. Will all’ve been for nothing, then.” He gestured at the glass. “Should we call the hospital? Ask them if my bowels are clean enough? What if they send me back? What if I have to redo it later? It’s not a clear yellow yet. It’s supposed to be a clear yellow. I don’t wanna wait, angel. I don’t want to do this again.”

He burped and suppressed his body’s urge to expel the laxative. All that talking had only managed to make him feel worse. Or maybe it was the panic, the bone-deep fear that his endoscopies wouldn’t be happening today. That he’d gone through all of this for absolutely nothing. He was pathetic. Couldn’t even finish a simple little drink.

“Breathe, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. “You’re going to be all right.” He’d removed his hand from Crowley’s shoulder at some point. Usually, Crowley would instantly crave the comforting touch again. This time, though, he was already completely overstimulated from the nausea and panic. “I don’t think we need to call them,” Aziraphale continued calmly. “There are still things…happening, aren’t there?”

Crowley grimaced and nodded.

“There we are, then. There’s still time until we need to leave. Let’s give your body as much time as we can, and then we’ll ask the hospital staff whether there’s any problem. But really, dearest, I think it will be all right. You’ve barely eaten yesterday as it is.”

Aziraphale slightly tilted his head at him and gave him one of his looks. The pure sympathy one. The one where compassion pooled in his eyes, his lips pulled into a gentle smile and his eyebrows drew together until his fondness gathered into the folds of his skin.

“All right?” his partner asked gently.

Crowley exhaled, blowing out a trembling breath. “All right.”

Aziraphale stood up from the bath and caressed Crowley’s cheek before moving back towards the door. “I shall leave you to it for now, all right? Call me if anything changes. And I mean anything.”

Barely twenty minutes later, the nausea subsided. Crowley’s heart calmed down, and he was able to swallow a few sips of water without his stomach turning upside down. Despite the very small amount of laxative he’d had, his bowels still continued to empty themselves.

Once again, Aziraphale had been right. There had been nothing to worry about. Everything was going to be fine.

He was ready to go to hospital.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale’s hand rested on Crowley’s bouncing knee. It was two minutes to ten. Any moment now, it would be his turn.

There was one other duo in the waiting room. They didn’t look half as nervous as Crowley was currently feeling. Strangely, though, Crowley was simultaneously feeling an odd sense of calm. After surviving this morning’s laxative horrors, being put to sleep for a little endoscopy endeavour almost sounded peaceful. Almost.

A young nurse appeared in the door opening, dressed in blue scrubs, her eyes scanning the room. “Mr Crowley?”

Crowley jerked upright, heart skipping a beat no matter how prepared he was. “Yep. That’s me.”

“Good morning,” the nurse said kindly. “My name is Jane. You may come with me.”

Aziraphale squeezed his knee. “This is where I leave you, then. I’ll come as soon as they call me.”

Crowley took a breath. Then he narrowed his eyes at him. “Did you turn on the sound?”

Aziraphale’s frantic patting of his pockets revealed that the answer was most likely to be no. He looked up, smiling almost guiltily, and pulled a silly face. “Rest assured, once I find the blessed thing, I will make sure the alarm is loud enough they’ll be able to hear it all the way up in heaven!”

“The ringtone, angel. You need to turn up the ringtone.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Crowley got up from the chair and slung his bag over his shoulder. Aziraphale would figure it out. When things were important, he always did. Crowley had faith in him.

“See you soon, love,” Aziraphale said, voice gentle now, many things left unspoken, for they both already knew.

Crowley leaned in and allowed his cheek to be kissed. “See you, angel. And hey,” he added cheekily, the corner of his mouth twitching, “don’t drink too many sherries while I’m gone. You’re the one driving us home later.”

The sound of Aziraphale’s tut travelled all the way down the corridor with Crowley and the nurse.

Jane glanced at him while she led him to the room. “Been together long?” she asked conversationally.

Crowley couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah.”

She nodded. “You can tell.” She gestured at an open door to their right, revealing a room with four beds, two of them already occupied. The one right by the door was still empty, and the nurse ushered him towards it. “Here we are. You’ve brought a bag? Good. You may strip from the waist down and put all your belongings in your bag. You can store it in this drawer here. Then you can just get into the bed and get under the blanket. I’ll come check on you in a minute, okay?”

Crowley filed away all the instructions and gave a nod. “Ok.”

Jane pulled the curtains shut around Crowley’s bed, and that was that. It was time.

***

They asked him his name and date of birth about ten times, whether he’d had anything to eat or drink about three times, and then came the final question: “Are you ready?”

The nurse had opened the curtains around him, showing Crowley a member of staff walking into the room. It was a bald, portly man in a white doctor's coat named Brian. Brian introduced himself as the anaesthesiologist and proceeded to ask Crowley what he did for work while the nurse put in Crowley’s IV. The man’s eyes sparkled as he talked, and his smile never left his lips. Crowley decided he already liked Brian.

It all felt very real all of a sudden. Crowley had never seen IVs outside of the hospital dramas he watched when he needed to distract himself from all the shit he was going through himself. Luckily, the IV was in before he knew it. It helped that both Jane and Brian were talking to him, both about the actions they were performing as well as how Crowley had quit his job a few months ago due to the ever-growing amounts of stress.

Just as quickly as the preparations had been put into motion, they were finished. The IV was in, and the necessary questions had been asked. Brian put up the bars on either side of the hospital bed, Jane wished him good luck, and then Crowley was being wheeled out of the room.

The rolling of the rubber wheels reverberated through the bed until Crowley felt his body tremble along with the rhythm. It was early in the morning, and the hospital corridor was quiet. A group of med students dressed in matching white coats walked past, quietly talking amongst themselves and looking important with their clipboards.

“This is—err—yeah, wow, I’ve never experienced this before,” Crowley said. “You know, the whole—hospital thing.”

“Oh, yeah?” Brian replied. “A man of your age? You must’ve been blessed with good health.”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “I don’t know about that. I’m here, after all.”

“Yes,” Brian agreed lightly, “disability comes for us all, in the end.”

Crowley barked a laugh in surprise. “Jesus.”

They reached a new room, this one significantly smaller. There was medical equipment on either side, and the space was only faintly lit. It could almost be described as cosy, if not for the overpowering hospital smell—disinfectant and washing powder.

There were a couple of nurses already preparing for the endoscopies, but they briefly paused and introduced themselves to Crowley. He was asked his name and date of birth again, and then the doctor who was going to perform the procedure walked in. She explained what they were going to do and asked him if he had any questions.

With the answer being no, it was Brian’s turn to give Crowley his final instructions. He had to turn onto his left side and pull his knees up to his chest. Thank fuck he was still under his blanket, or the compromising position would have sent Crowley into an instant spiral of awkwardness.

“I have a mouthpiece for you,” Brian said next. “So you can’t bite down while they perform the gastroscopy.”

At this point, everything was fine with Crowley. If they told him he had to stand on his head for easier access, he would do it, no questions asked.

The mouthpiece was less uncomfortable than Crowley expected. It was basically a hollow cube on a headband, and it vaguely reminded him of being at the orthodontist, except his lips weren’t being stretched like rubber bands.

“All right, we’re all ready to go,” Brian announced. Although Crowley was only able to see the man’s midriff at this point, the smile was still audible in his voice. Brian pushed something into Crowley’s IV, and a cold sensation slowly began to flow into his veins. “See you soon,” the anaesthesiologist said softly.

Crowley took a breath. Time to fall asleep.

His eyelids grew heavy, and he soon gave in to their pull. He thought of Aziraphale. Would he have found the volume button yet?

***

When his eyes blinked open, Crowley found himself in the same room as before, with the other two beds still occupied.

Nurse Jane smiled at him from the end of his bed. “Hello there, are you with us again?”

“Hm,” Crowley managed to say. His head was heavy. His eyes were heavy too. He blinked slowly. Very, very slowly. Then he fell asleep again.

The next time he woke up, he felt a bit more alert. Jane walked past his bed, and Crowley sat up a bit straighter. “How long was I out for?” Was he slurring? He couldn’t be slurring, right? He was definitely awake now.

“Give or take ten minutes. Are you hungry? Want something to eat?”

“…Yeah. Thanks.”

The door next to his bed opened wider, and one of the hospital’s metal-grid wheelchairs rolled into the room. It was being pushed by Aziraphale. Crowley’s lips tugged into a wide grin.

“Angel!”

“Hello, my dear. I see you’re awake.”

“Yep! Rise and shine!”

Aziraphale chuckled. He put the wheelchair out of the way for now and took a seat on one of the wooden chairs next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Crowley blinked again. He was, for some reason, very aware of his blinking. It was very slow. “Good. Hungry. Tired, I think. Did you find the volume button?”

“Yes, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, eyes crinkling, “otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here right now, would I?”

“Hm.”

“So, still feeling a little bit…under the influence?” Aziraphale asked, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Nahhh.” Crowley waved a hand about. “‘M just sleepy. Still gotta wake up. What’d you do while I was—never mind. You brought a book, I’m assuming? Yeah, of course you did. Don’t know how you could read while knowing your partner is literally unconscious. Heartless, angel. Oh look, my food.”

Jane gave him a slice of toast and tea in a paper cup. She offered Aziraphale some as well, and he, naturally, immediately accepted.

“So,” Aziraphale said after taking a dainty sip, amusement lining his voice for some reason, “you’re definitely not a bit high?”

Crowley scoffed. “Nah.” He took a swig of the tea. It didn’t have milk in. “Mm. ‘S good tea though.”

Aziraphale leaned towards him and gave his arm an affectionate pat. “Well, you enjoy your well-deserved meal, darling. Then, once you’re fully awake, let’s go home, hm? What say you?”

Crowley broke off a small piece of toast and inspected it for several seconds. “Yeah. Home sounds good.” He popped the bread into his mouth. Not bad.

They didn’t get to go home just yet, though. While Aziraphale and Crowley were idly chatting, the doctor who had performed Crowley’s procedure walked into the room. She was probably about ten years younger than him and wore her long, blonde hair in a low ponytail.

“Ah, good to see you awake,” she said as she walked up towards the end of his bed.

Crowley nodded.

“How do you feel?”

Another slow blink. The world turned black for what felt like several seconds. “Sleepy,” Crowley said.

The doctor smiled and went straight to business. “So, Mr Crowley, for now, I can tell you we found a few signs that point towards Crohn’s Disease. We took some samples from your bowel tissues. The pathologist is going to examine them, and they will be able to tell us for sure, but for now, these are our preliminary results. We found strictures in your ileum and in the ileocecal valve. Or, to put it simply, in the last part of the small intestine and the entrance from the small to the large intestine. This is a very common finding for Crohn’s Disease. These parts of your bowels have been inflamed so many times over that scar tissue has replaced your normal cells. As a result, your bowels have become narrower, which in turn makes it harder for you to digest your food.”

“Does this explain why his flare-ups have been increasing?” Aziraphale asked.

“It certainly could. Blockage symptoms can certainly include nausea, vomiting, and pain, among other things.” The doctor looked at Crowley, perhaps expecting questions from him as well. For once, Crowley didn’t have any. “We will schedule an appointment with your specialist, and they will discuss the final results with you and where to go from there.” She gave him another kind smile. “Do you have any questions?”

Two faces looked at him expectantly, but Crowley had no idea what questions he could possibly have to ask at this moment. Deep down, the possibility that he might have Crohn’s Disease had always been at the back of his mind. During his research on IBS, he’d inevitably come across its cousin, IBD—inflammatory bowel disease. But after gaslighting himself into believing it was ‘just stress and IBS’ for so long, he’d never allowed himself to genuinely consider it. Now that it was all but confirmed, though, all he felt was a sense of validation. Like he’d always known something was wrong. He was sick. He’d been sick all this time.

“No,” Crowley answered mildly. “Thanks, doctor.”

***

Being pushed in a wheelchair to the Bentley was another first. It was mandatory for patients to be transported in a wheelchair after the procedure, and Crowley could feel why. His legs were jelly as he got out of bed, and they trembled as he slid into the passenger seat.

He’d sobered up a lot since his meal. His whimsical mood had evaporated somewhere between leaving the room and being wheeled through the hospital while looking like a ghost. Well, except people didn’t stare at ghosts. They did stare at Crowley. He was aware he looked like an able-bodied man, and that slender 50-year-olds with flamingly colourful hair and all-black attire were hardly seen in his position, with a chipper, plumper man pushing the wheelchair. Crowley was used to getting looks now and again, but those never pierced him the way the hospital visitors’ gazes did. There was pity, confusion, curiosity, and, if he let his mind go there, possibly even condemnation. Well, sod them all. Crowley had nothing to prove. And it certainly wasn’t up to him to educate the ignorant.

A heavy feeling sat in his chest as Aziraphale gingerly closed the door to the passenger seat. It was only seconds later, when his partner walked away to return the wheelchair, that Crowley burst into tears.

What the fuck.

He buried his face in his hand as sobs escaped his throat, his body shaking. Here he was, in the middle of the car park, a grown man breaking down because of a mere endoscopic procedure.

Thankfully, the self-loathing didn’t get the chance to fester for too long. Aziraphale returned shortly after and, despite Crowley trying to lock the feelings away, immediately noticed.

“Oh, darling,” he said softly as he rushed into the car and closed the door behind him. He shuffled as closely as the car seats would allow and put his hand on Crowley’s leg. “It’s all been a lot, hasn’t it?”

Crowley sniffed loudly. “It’s ridiculous,” he grunted, brusquely wiping the tears from his cheeks and, knowing he’d get away with it right now, his snot on his sleeve. “What’s there to cry about?”

“All of it, Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently. “On top of all the stress you’ve endured surrounding the laxatives and being put to sleep for the first time, you’ve just been told you—most likely—have a chronic illness, my dear. Of course you have a lot to process.”

“We already knew though, didn’t we? Or suspected, at the very least. It should be a relief. It is a relief.” He sniffled and sucked in a trembling breath. “I don’t know why I’m feeling like this.”

“That’s okay too,” Aziraphale said, tenderly brushing a strand of hair out of Crowley’s face. “Would you like me to drive us home?”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand in his own, concentrating on the warmth radiating off his palm, the flexibility of his soft skin as the pads of his fingers curled around Crowley’s hand. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

***

Crowley barely made it through the door without once again dissolving into tears. Aziraphale guided him towards the sofa, made them both a cup of tea and some more toast, and seated himself right beside Crowley, wrapping them together in one big blanket.

A heavy sigh poured out of Crowley as he snuggled into Aziraphale’s side. After all he’d been through yesterday and today, he finally felt his body go out of fight-or-flight mode. Aziraphale was right. He had been through a lot. But now he was home. Now, he could relax, let go, and soak in the feeling of being safe and cared for.