Do you kids know how hard it is to hyper fixate on shit as a goddamn adult?? Sorry boss I know you need those files done but I’m too busy giggling like a goddamn school girl over a fictional man
Crowley and Aziraphale have moved to the digital era and created a life on video streaming platform Youtube. They have thousands of fans who look up to them both. Aziraphale makes book review videos and Crowley mainly about Aziraphale when he isn't talking about the ineffability of death.
But suddenly his thoughts surrounding death become a little too real for everyone.
AO3 Link
22k Words
warnings: Major character death, terminal illness, cancer, talks about needles and blood being took, general hospital talk
It started with the bruises.
He'd seen them scattered over Crowley’s skin like smudges of paint; like little lavender blooms in a field. Greyish-lilac in colour, and faintly speckled. Oddly pretty, even. They were dotted here and there, in odd places that shouldn’t often get knocked – his palms, his thighs, his stomach. His shins were littered with blotches like he'd been playing football, yet Crowley was hardly a sporty person. Upon noticing them, Aziraphale had pointed them out as they slouched on the sofa watching Planet Earth. Crowley had glanced down at the mark and wrinkled his nose, dismissing it as clumsiness or some other mishap. Aziraphale hadn’t thought much more of it after that.
A few days later, in the early evening, a loud curse came from the bathroom and Aziraphale started, calling out. A few thuds sounded, and then Crowley walked into the room with bloody hands and a bloodier nose.
‘It just came out of nowhere,’ he’d said.
They'd found tissues and cleaned up the mess, Crowley lying on his back squeezing the bridge of his nose. A small drop of red had fallen onto Aziraphale’s bookshop carpet; he didn't mind that much. No amount of bleach was going to get it out.
Later, he placed a table over the mark.
The nosebleeds became a recurrence, to the point where Crowley constantly carried tissues and Aziraphale nagged him to visit the doctor. Crowley was stubborn and lazy and put up a mean fight, though, and Aziraphale eventually gave up.
Then, for a week, there was no blood and nothing extraordinary happening, and Aziraphale almost forgot about the incidents until Crowley was straddling him on the sofa with his hands on Aziraphale’s skin and their bare chests pressed together.
Pulling away from the breathless kiss, Aziraphale frowned as his hands trailed Crowley’s sides. Each rib was a small bump under his fingers.
‘Have you lost weight?’
Crowley shrugged, breathing hard and pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s neck. ‘Dunno. Maybe. Why?’
‘I can feel your ribs. You're thinner.’
‘Good,’ Crowley joked, grabbing Aziraphale’s chin and pulling it back up to kiss him. Aziraphale sighed and relented, moving his hands to Crowley’s hips. He was quickly distracted as Crowley ground down into him and he gasped, revelling in the feeling of Crowley’s fingers tugging at his hair. Sliding his hands under Crowley’s waistband, he gripped his ass, rocking them back and forth. Crowley’s hands were everywhere and the friction between them felt a thousand degrees hot; whatever he had been worried about was quickly forgotten.
They slept in Aziraphale’s bed that night, and Aziraphale lay awake longer than he should have, tracing his finger down the ridges of Crowley’s spine as he lay on his front next to him. He knew it was probably just his own hypochondria making him worry, but Crowley was definitely thinner. He was all angles now, and his hips seemed to have lost some of their curves. Crowley wasn't meant to be bony – Crowley was soft and had thighs that gave when you gripped them. His legs had felt skinnier and locked around Aziraphale’s waist that evening.
Aziraphale shuffled closer to him and fell asleep with his hand on the curve of Crowley’s back and a frown creasing his brow.
-
Crowley was tired.
That was the main theme of the next few weeks.
Even the fans had caught on thanks to Crowley’s insistence on tweeting every thought that came into his head, and they’d even gotten the hashtag ‘#whyiscrowleytired’ trending. Aziraphale scrolled through it once, just curious to see what the hell it was all about. Many posts suggested he was tiring himself out fucking Aziraphale every hour of the day – Aziraphale had known they'd come up with that eventually. He wondered how many of them were actually being serious.
One comment caught his eye and he read it, chewing on his lip.
maybe this is going to be like all the fics and it'll turn out he has brain cancer or something lmao #whyisdantired
It was satire and he knew it, but it still bothered him for some reason.
He gave himself a shake, closing the web browser and shutting his laptop. Even if they were half right,he reminded himself, it's me who always dies in the fics.
-
The fever came, and brought with it aching joints and a white face and sweat on Crowley’s forehead.
Aziraphale fussed over him, making soup that Crowley turned his nose up at and sitting with Crowley’s head in his lap for hours while they watched Game of Thrones. The tickle of Crowley’s breath against his leg was fast and frequent. A patch of damp warmth suddenly appeared and he looked down, grimacing as he saw the small trickle of blood from Crowley’s nose staining his jeans.
‘You will have to go to the doctor’s at some point, you know,’ he commented a few minutes later as he stood outside the bathroom while Crowley cleaned up his face.
‘It's just a virus,’ came a muffled reply.
‘Then you need medicine.’
‘I'm fine.’
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and folded his arms, staring at his feet. He was getting Crowley to a doctor if it meant dragging him kicking and screaming.
Just to be safe.
That's what he told himself.
-
Crowley went to the doctor eventually, but insisted Aziraphale stay home.
Halfway through his lunch, Aziraphale’s phone buzzed and he picked it up, a text from Crowley popping up on the screen.
coming home now
He sighed in relief, and typed out his own message.
-Everything okay?
The reply came through almost instantly.
-idk they want blood tests
His brow furrowed.
-Why??
-dunno something about white blood cells
Crowley came home and climbed straight into his bed, pulling Aziraphale in with him and pressing his face into Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale had laid there, staring at the clock that told him it was only two in the afternoon. Still, he laced his hand with Crowley’s as it wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist and waited for Crowley to fall asleep. He'd be free to get up once he had dropped off.
Crowley’s breathing was quick and Aziraphale could feel his burning skin through his shirt. The bed heated up quickly, and Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, trying to wriggle his way out without disturbing Crowley. The arm around his waist tightened and Crowley let out a quiet groan and Aziraphale stilled, waiting for the rhythm of Crowley’s breaths to slow again. They did – barely – and he managed to slide carefully away and out of the bed.
It was cooler and more comfortable on the sofa, but a small twinge of guilt twisted in his stomach as the harsh, hacking sound of coughing came from Crowley’s room.
-
He'd been resisting the temptation to Google Crowley’s symptoms for almost a month, and he could feel he was close to giving in.
In truth, he knew all the results would be the worst case scenario, and Crowley was likely just coming down with a particularly nasty case of flu that had messed with his nose. There was nothing abnormal about his symptoms – it was classic virus behaviour, save for the weight loss and perhaps the bruises. It was truly nothing to worry about. Even so, with a guilty conscience, he unlocked his phone and keyed in the search.
His eyes flicked down the page and he quickly closed the tab, putting his phone face down on the table, disturbed, because every single result had said the same thing.
-
Aziraphale came with Crowley for the blood test.
They sat together – as usual – in the waiting room, sitting as close as was possible without seeming suspicious. The guard was up.
A young doctor with a clipboard called Crowley’s name and they both stood, Aziraphale shooting Crowley a reassuring smile as they followed the doctor through a short corridor.
In the room, the doctor – who Aziraphale learned was called Dr. Yim – put a tight strap around Crowley’s arm and sterilised the area on the inside of his elbow.
‘What's it going to feel like?’ Crowley asked. He couldn't really remember the last time this had happened when he had that operation – the morphine had seen to that.
‘Just a sharp scratch.’ Yim replied.
Crowley’s eyes widened and he grimaced at the sight of the needle, turning to Aziraphale, determinedly looking away from his arm.
‘Distract me,’ he muttered.
Aziraphale nodded, trying not to watch what was happening. ‘Are you going to make any new videos soon?’
‘Maybe. I've not really been feeling up to it lately, but I've got some ideas –,’ he suddenly stopped, mouth tightening as the needle entered his arm. Aziraphale watched in morbid fascination, unable to tear his eyes away, as the small tube attached to the needle filled slowly with Crowley’s blood.
‘Not so bad,’ Crowley muttered. He had turned sheet white, and Aziraphale was inclined to think he was reassuring himself rather than talking to Aziraphale.
It was over relatively quickly and they were on their way, Crowley absently rubbing his thumb back and forth over the plaster on his arm.
‘Leave it alone,’ Aziraphale said gently, nudging his fingers away.
Crowley smiled sideways at him, dropping his hand to his side and bumping their knuckles together. Aziraphale’s little finger caught Crowley’s, just for a second.
They fell asleep on the sofa that night, Aziraphale’s legs in Crowley’s lap and their hands loosely laced together.
-
Four days later, Aziraphale came home from Tesco to find Crowley sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands.
‘What's wrong?’ he asked, dumping the plastic bag on the floor by the stairs and taking his coat off.
Crowley didn't reply.
‘Crowley?’
A pause. Crowley rubbed a hand over his face. ‘They want me to go to the hospital. There was something wrong with the blood test.’
Aziraphale frowned. ‘You mean they did it wrong, or –’
‘No. My blood. There's something wrong with my blood.’ He looked up, his expression anguished. ‘They want to do a bone marrow biopsy. I know what that's for, Aziraphale.’
Aziraphale felt a cold finger drag itself down his spine. ‘What?’
Silence. Crowley stood up, covering his face.
‘What, Crowley?’
Crowley turned to Aziraphale. His eyes were a little red.
-
‘Leukaemia.’
A long silence.
The word hung heavy in the air.
Aziraphale felt Crowley stiffen beside him; sensing it both physically and not so. The tension flowed off him in tangible waves, and Aziraphale could see it in the slight way his fingers began to drum on the arm of the chair and how he stopped bouncing his leg.
‘Acute myeloid leukaemia, to be precise. Cancer of the white blood cells. Not metastasised.’ The doctor looked up from her desk to Crowley, her face grim. ‘I’m incredibly sorry, Mr. Howell.’
Crowley put his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees. There was a pause. When he spoke, his voice was emotionless.
‘Stage?’
‘...Due to its nature, leukaemia isn't staged like other cancers. You'd be classed as something like early to mid stage. However, while your cancer has not spread to other parts of your body yet, there is a high risk that it will do so if we do not begin treatment promptly.’
Crowley didn't take his face from his hands. Aziraphale stared at him intently, half-listening to the doctor. Everything felt muted – like being underwater.
‘So it’s treatable?’ Crowley asked, raising his head.
‘Yes, immediately.’
‘Am I going to die?’
Aziraphale closed his eyes, clenching his jaw.
The doctor hesitated. ‘It is… unlikely, but it's hard to say at this point.’
Crowley let out a long, shuddering breath, sinking back into his hands. ‘Oh my God.’
‘AML is typically associated with a poor prognosis, but you are young and otherwise healthy. We’ve caught it fairly early on. We’re going to do everything we can to get you through this. You’ll have every kind of support you need.’ The doctor turned to Aziraphale, seemingly uncertain. ‘Are you…?’ She motioned between them.
‘We’re together,’ Aziraphale said without hesitating. It felt strange to say – it was not something they spoke about much. They just were.
‘I understand. Any support you require in terms of mental health, coping with psychological stress, etcetera – that will also be available to you,’ she addressed Aziraphale.
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.
Crowley had removed his head from his hands and was sitting up, hands locked tight together in his lap. ‘So. Treatment,’ he said. ‘What’s going to happen?’
The doctor looked down, unearthing some papers from her desk. ‘Well, since your condition is an aggressive one, we’ll likely be starting treatment in a few days' time or as soon as we can get you a space in the chemotherapy ward.’
‘Chemotherapy,’ Crowley repeated, his hand automatically going to his hair. It was pushed back out of his face today. ‘So I'll lose my hair.’
‘It’s a common side effect.’
‘Is it guaranteed to work?’
‘Unfortunately not. But there is a very good chance that it will, considering that we’ve caught it before it has spread.’
‘Right.’
Aziraphale felt Crowley’s leg lean against his and he nudged it back. I'm right here.
‘Will he have to stay in hospital?’ Aziraphale queried.
‘Most likely, yes. Only during the treatment though – when he’s on breaks, he can go home. Since his immune system will be compromised by both the condition and the treatment, it’s important that he's in a sterile environment. Any small infection could be dangerous.’
‘How long?’
‘Anywhere between a few weeks and a few months.’
Aziraphale felt his stomach drop. ‘Months?’
‘If he doesn't respond well to treatment, then yes.’
Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his temples. ‘Okay. Alright.’ He looked over at Crowley, eyes flitting to the shadows under his eyes and the tight, thin line of his mouth. ‘When will we be back?’
‘I’ll arrange for you to come in on Friday. If anything changes, we’ll let you know.’
‘How is the treatment going to work?’ Crowley asked.
The doctor considered. ‘The best course of action is most likely chemotherapy, as I said. After a while, we’ll check his progress and see if further action is required. Radiation, hormones and surgery may be options, but that's quite a way off yet.’ She smiled a little. "We'll do our best to get you better before you have to even consider any of that.’
‘Thank you,’ Crowley said quietly.
They stood and the doctor walked over to the door to open it for them. Just as they were leaving, she touched Crowley’s arm.
‘I’m not going to pretend the next few months are going to be easy, but it’s going to be okay. The doctors will do everything in our power to make it okay.’
Crowley forced a smile. ‘Thanks.’
She returned the smile and let them out, shutting the door behind them.
Walking through the corridor was surreal. Aziraphale felt as though he'd been dropped to the bottom of the ocean – all of a sudden, there was this enormous weight crushing down on him from all angles and the air had been punched right out of his lungs. The only thing he was really aware of was Crowley’s presence beside him; this constant thing that had always just been there. His head hurt at the idea of it being absent and he violently pushed the thought away, willing himself not to think like that.
They spoke very little on the taxi ride home. Aziraphale threw small worried glances at Crowley, watching him sit motionless, staring into space. His face betrayed nothing.
When they got home, Crowley shut the door behind him and walked straight into Aziraphale’s open arms. Aziraphale squeezed him tight, burying his face in Crowley’s shoulder, his hand rubbing small circles on Crowley’s back as they rocked gently from side to side. Crowley’s arms were vices – he held on for dear life, lips against Aziraphale’s shoulder, eyes closed. They stayed there for several minutes, not talking, but sharing the weight of the situation.
‘I love you,’ Aziraphale said quietly. ‘I know we don't say it very often, but I do. A lot. And I’m with you. I’m staying right here. That's not changing.’
He heard Crowley’s breath catch. ‘I know. And I love you.’
As they slept in Crowley’s bed that night, Crowley lay facing away from Aziraphale, his arms wrapped around himself. Aziraphale lay on his back, an arm over his face, mind buzzing.
Suddenly, at some point around midnight, Crowley turned to him and tapped on his shoulder.
‘I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking.’
Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Yeah, neither.’
‘Distract me.’
He opened his eyes, starting over at Crowley. ‘What?’
‘Distract me. Please,’ he said quietly, his tone growing more urgent as he slid his hands up Aziraphale’s shirt, tracing patterns on his chest. ‘Let's fuck. Come on. We’re not going to be able to for a while, and I want to think about anything but today.’
He hesitated. ‘I don't want to hurt you.’
Suddenly, Crowley was over him, in his face, staring straight at Aziraphale with eyes like hellfire. ‘If you start treating me like I’m made of glass, Aziraphale, I swear to God I will break both your legs.’
A breathy laugh came from him. ‘Alright, sorry.’
Afterwards, they lay curled around each other, close enough that Aziraphale could feel the quick beating of Crowley’s heart against his back as their breaths gradually slowed.
‘Thank you,’ Crowley murmured, shuffling closer so his head was buried in the back of Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale smiled a little as he felt a light kiss against his skin.
‘That's okay.’
‘I’m going to get through this,’ Crowley mumbled. ‘We’re going to be fine.’
Aziraphale nodded, because that was the only plausible outcome.
Everything would be fine.
-
On Thursday evening, they sat on Crowley’s bed with a suitcase, packing comfortable clothes into it.
It was a little surreal. The floor, usually scattered with discarded garments, was bare.
Suddenly, as Crowley was folding a hoodie, his head snapped up and he swore. ‘Shit. We’re going to have to tell them.’
Aziraphale frowned, confused. ‘Tell who?’
‘The fans, Aziraphale. I'm hardly going to be able to make videos.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Shit. I didn't want to have to. They’ll freak out.’
‘They care about you,’ Aziraphale reminded him.
‘Yes, but they’ll lose their minds over this. I'll be The Sick Guy. Everything will become about my situation.’ He grimaced, shaking his head. ‘I don't want that.’
Aziraphale thought for a moment. ‘You’re probably right, but you can't really avoid it now. They'll notice, one way or the other. It's that or completely drop off the Internet for several months.’ He shot Crowley a look, smiling. ‘And we both know that's not going to happen.’
‘No chance in hell,’ Crowley said, lying back on the bed. ‘Fuck it. I'll film it now. One take.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, why not. Can you get my light and my camera? They're just over –’
‘I know where they are.’
They quickly set up, Crowley clearing a space on the bed while Aziraphale dealt with the tripod and camera.
‘You ready?’ Aziraphale said, standing behind the camera.
Crowley nodded, taking a breath in. ‘Yeah. I'm ready. Go.’
Aziraphale turned the camera on.
‘Hello, Internet. So, this is a bit of a spontaneous video, and not one I ever really thought I’d have to make, but I need to talk about something important.
‘A lot of you probably know that I've not been feeling 100% these past few weeks. Well, I went to the doctors, and they did some tests, which came back… abnormal.’
Aziraphale watched him pause briefly, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
‘I got referred to the hospital. On Monday, I went there to get the results, and was told that I have leukaemia.’
His voice was steely, and Aziraphale felt himself crack a little.
‘It's… all been very intense. Everything feels like it’s happening fast forward. I'm going back into the hospital again on Friday – tomorrow – and I'll be staying there for a while, so unfortunately there aren't going to be many videos during that time. I'm really sorry.’ He smiled a little sadly. ‘I’m not going away, though. I'll be on Twitter lots – I expect I'll have a lot of free time to spend there – and Tumblr, so I'll keep you updated on things.
‘I know many of you probably have a lot of questions right now, but let me assure you of some things – I’m still me, I’m okay, and I'm not going to die. This is the way things are now, and the way things are is shit, but I’m going to get through it. It’s… not going to be easy, but we’ll manage. A lot of things are going to change, but I’m determined that it’ll be okay in the end. I’ll make it okay.’
He paused, then gestured for Aziraphale to come on camera. ‘Aziraphale’s here too. He’s going to help me.’
Aziraphale learned quickly into the shot, smiling and giving a small wave. ‘Hey, guys.’
‘Anyway, this was just a quick update so you guys know what’s up. Everything’s going to be fine. People beat cancer all the time – hell, I bet some of you have.’ He smiled, reaching for the camera. ‘Bye for now.’
He turned the camera off.
Aziraphale watched Crowley deflate.
‘Fucking hell,’ he murmured, lying back. ‘That was exhausting.’
‘Did it feel good?’ Aziraphale asked. ‘To say it, I mean.’
Crowley considered. ‘I guess so. Yeah, it did.’
They transferred the footage to Crowley’s laptop and put it into YouTube. Crowley’s finger stilled, the cursor hovering over the upload button.
‘The minute I clicked this,’ he murmured, ‘it's real. Everyone will know.’
Aziraphale looked over at him. ‘You don’t have to,’ he said quietly.
Crowley shook his head. ‘I do. And I want to. Let's just get it over with.’
He clicked the button, then sat back and let out a long breath.
‘There it goes.’
Aziraphale rested his head against Crowley’s shoulder, and they watched the chaos unfold.
-
I can't believe this I hope he's alright #GetWellSoonCrowley
im crying there's too many what ifs please let him be okay #GetWellSoonCrowley
guys please remember he probably wants space, let's support him but not make a huge deal of it, he's still the same #GetWellSoonCrowley
nononononononono this can't be happening #GetWellSoonCrowley
he's going to pull through I just know it #GetWellSoonCrowley
we’re with you no matter what #GetWellSoonCrowley
-
The hospital was a maze, and smelled of an unsavoury combination of sickness and sanitizer.
They walked through the Oncology unit, Aziraphale carrying Crowley’s small suitcase. A receptionist had put a paper band around Crowley’s wrist, with his name and age on it. He twisted it round and round on his arm, fiddling absently. He was dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie – distinctly different to what Aziraphale was used to him wearing outside. He hadn’t even bothered with his hair. It marked the first change, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
Crowley also had a mask. Thin white material over his mouth and nose, like the kind Aziraphale had seen doctors wear. The receptionist had explained that it was to protect the patients with weak immune systems. Patients like Crowley.
They sat in a small waiting area for a few minutes, waiting for someone called Dr. Hunt. The only other people there were a young girl and her mother, both in masks; the daughter’s one was dotted with stickers. The little girl, asleep against her mother’s arm, had patchy hair and a tube winding from a small bag, up behind her ear and into one side of her nose. Aziraphale did his best not to stare.
The mother made eye contact with him and her eyes crinkled with a slight smile. Aziraphale noted how exhausted she looked – dark bags under her eyes, pale cheeks, hard lines across her face like they'd been carved into clay with a needle.
‘Is this your first time here?’ she asked.
Aziraphale looked up ‘Yeah. It feels… a bit crazy.’
She laughed. ‘I know how you feel. I was you with my daughter last year, except I can see you’re probably not his dad.’
Crowley smiled. ‘Definitely not.’
‘I’m Lillian, by the way. This is Andrea,’ she gestured to her sleeping daughter.
‘I’m Crowley. This is Aziraphale,’ Crowley spoke up. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘If you don't mind me asking, which one of you is…?’ she trailed off, hesitating.
Crowley raised his hand slightly. ‘Me. Leukaemia.’
She nodded. ‘I thought so, but I didn't want to say in case I offended you.’
Crowley laughed. ‘It's fine, I know I look like shi—’
Aziraphale elbowed him, nodding sharply to the little girl.
‘— terrible.’
Lillian chuckled, then looked down at her daughter. ‘Andrea has Hodgkin’s. She's close to finishing chemo, now. Just one more month, and we should be in remission.’ Her hand stroked the little girl’s feathery hair.
‘That's great,’ Aziraphale said.
At that moment, a tall woman with a severe face and a scarf wrapped into a neat knot around her hair walked in.
‘Mr. Crowley?’
Crowley stood with Aziraphale.
The doctor nodded at them and gave a smile. ‘Hello. I am Dr. Hunt; I'll be overseeing your treatment here, Mr. Crowley. Do you prefer Anthony or Crowley?’
‘Crowley, please.’
‘Perfect. Please follow me – we’ve got your bed ready just down the ward.’
They went to follow her out of the room. Lillian spoke quietly to Aziraphale as he passed.
‘You’re in good hands – she's brilliant. A little intimidating at first, but brilliant.’
Aziraphale smiled genuinely at her. ‘Thanks.’
They followed Hunt down through the ward, past several people in chairs or beds, hooked up to IVs. Some cubicles were closed off with thin blue paper curtains. The people were mostly elderly, with the exceptions of a girl as young as Andrea and a teenage boy with a beanie pulled over his bare scalp. Aziraphale’s eye caught a wizened old man, thin as a rail, sitting in a wheelchair with an elderly woman next to him. Her hand covered his, their fingers overlapping.
Aziraphale looked away, focusing on Crowley walking just ahead of him. He was hyper-aware of the eyes on their backs.
At Crowley’s spot, a middle-aged nurse sat him down and pulled the curtains shut around his bed, explaining what was going to happen as she prepared a catheter with a needle on the end. Aziraphale suppressed a smile at the disgusted look Crowley was giving the needle.
‘Hi, Crowley. I’m Mary, I'll be helping out during your treatment along with Adam here.’ She gestured to the male nurse in the corner of the cubicle. ‘You’ll be receiving a chemotherapy drug called cytarabine – we call it ara-C – through a central line in your chest. It’ll –’
‘Wait – through my chest?’ Crowley said apprehensively. ‘Won't that… hurt?’
Mary laughed. ‘Just a little bit, when it goes in. It's only going into a vein – not into your heart, or anything. Don't worry.’
Crowley nodded. He didn't look convinced.
‘I’m going to have to ask you to take your shirt off, now. You can have it back on afterwards.’ She looked over uncertainty at Aziraphale, then back to Crowley. ‘Is he okay to stay, or…?’
‘No, he's fine,’ Crowley said, sending Aziraphale an apologetic smile.
Crowley pulled his shirt over his head and Aziraphale winced at the sight of the blotchy bruises. They had turned greyish in colour, and dotted his stomach, which had lost a good deal of its softness. His ribs showed a little on the side.
Aziraphale watched as the nurse cleaned a patch on the left side of Crowley’s chest, tapping it a few times until a blue vein showed through his pale skin. Crowley’s mouth tightened as she picked up the needle and he turned towards Aziraphale, head down, eyes squeezed shut.
‘I absolutely hate needles. It doesn't even hurt that much, it's just –’ the catheter went in and he sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flying wide open, ‘– shit, I take that back, it hurts like a bitch –’
‘Crowley, there are kids here,’ Aziraphale murmured, trying to laugh. The nurses were laughing as they taped over the entry point of the catheter, hooking the wires hanging off it up to the drip next to the bed.
‘It's been a while since we’ve had a mouthy one,’ the nurse called Adam commented. ‘The old guy down there, Charlie – he would turn the air black with it when he first came in. He's not quite as perky anymore, but oh boy did he put up a good fight the other day when I tried to change his central line. He hates it.’
Aziraphale smiled a little as Adam spoke about the old man with affection. If all the nurses were like this, Crowley’s stay might not be too unbearable for him. Even so, it troubled him a little to think of Crowley being here long enough to make friends with the staff; he just wanted him at home.
A thought suddenly occurred to him and he looked up. ‘Am I allowed to stay here with him?’ he asked Mary.
She shook her head sympathetically, fiddling with a dial on Crowley’s IV. ‘Sorry, love. There's not enough space, and we’ve got to be really cautious around sanitation. A minor infection could be fatal to some of the people here. You can visit, though.’
Aziraphale nodded, exchanging a look with Crowley. Sorry.
The flat would feel strange tonight.
‘Okay. We’ve got the drip going; it’ll be on for about two hours.’ Adam said. ‘Your treatment program is going to consist of ten days of receiving the drug, then five days rest, then another cycle. Do you have any questions? About side effects, or anything?’
Crowley hesitated, then nodded. ‘What’s going to happen? How am I going to feel?’
Mary leaned on the bed, facing Crowley in his chair. ‘Most patients experience some fatigue; you're going to be really tired for quite a while. Nausea is also common, and some get mouth sores. You might feel dizzy, too.’ Her mouth twisted sympathetically. ‘Your hair will probably start to fall out around day fifteen.’
Crowley looked down, hand automatically going to his hair. A curl fell in his face and he brushed it away, fingertips lingering slightly on it.
The nurses left shortly after, keeping the curtains closed; Crowley preferred it that way. He sat in silence, pulling his hoodie back over his head. The wires hung out the hem, curling across his lap. He looked down at them, his nose wrinkling slightly.
‘There's a cold spot in my chest. I can feel my vein,’ he murmured.
‘That's so weird.’
‘Mhm.’
A brief pause.
‘Aziraphale?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I just remembered. We aren't going to be able to… do anything for a while. We won't even be able to sleep together.’
Aziraphale chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Is that really what's on your mind?’
‘What’s supposed to be on my mind?’ Crowley shot back.
‘I don't know. Probably not your libido, though.’
‘Better that than my imminent death,’ he muttered.
Aziraphale’s head jerked up and he stared at Crowley. ‘Don't talk like that.’
Crowley shrugged. ‘Kidding.’
Aziraphale looked down again, brushing phantom lint off his jeans. ‘You’re not going to die.’
‘Hope not.’
‘You aren't.’
‘I know.’
‘I won't let you,’ Aziraphale said, one corner of his mouth quivering a little. ‘You’re not allowed to.’
Crowley laughed. ‘Alright.’
-
Aziraphale left at nine in the evening – the latest he could push staying to.
Walking through the Underground alone felt odd. Usually, when he was somewhere without Crowley, he'd know that he was going back home to him. This was different – it felt strange – like he was abandoning him somehow.
He thought of him lying in the hospital bed, curtains pulled shut, nose buried in one of the books he'd brought with him, or maybe scrolling through something on his phone. Perhaps he was asleep already.
When he got home, his phone buzzed with a text from Crowley.
it’s so boring here
He chuckled.
-They should hire a clown to come in and entertain or something
fuck no I’d shit myself
He smiled to himself, sending a row of clown emojis. Crowley sent back a middle finger.
-You should sleep
He sent the message, staring at the screen, watching the three dots appear as Crowley typed. It was absurd, but the texting made him miss him more.
I'm not tired
-You will be if you don't sleep!!
it's like 10pm
-You’re sick
He regretted sending that immediately.
No. You don't pull that shit on me. Not you too
-Sorry. Bad choice of words
whatever it's all cool
Fuck. He was annoyed.
-I’m sorry Crowley
I said it's fine
He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
-Hope you sleep well
-See you tomorrow x
Waiting for the reply seemed to take forever, and when it came, he could almost hear the resignation in Crowley’s tone.
see you tomorrow
-
Nine days passed where Crowley insisted he felt mostly fine.
Then, on a Sunday, it started.
By the time Aziraphale arrived at the hospital, Crowley was pale and shivery and lay curled in his bed, arms wrapped around his middle. Adam was standing over him, trying to ask him something.
Aziraphale hurried over. ‘Is he okay? What’s wrong?’
Adam sighed. ‘Chemo side effects are starting; he's been ill all night. It had to happen eventually. There's not much we can do, except give him painkillers and anti-emetics.’ He looked over his shoulder at Aziraphale as he left. ‘I've seen this a thousand times before. It's going to be rough.’
Aziraphale nodded, walking around the bed and sitting down beside Crowley. He hesitated uncertainty, before reaching out to touch Crowley’s shoulder.
‘Hey. You okay?’
Crowley groaned and rolled onto his back, teeth clenched with nausea. He opened his eyes a little; they were dull with exhaustion.
‘Have you slept?’ Aziraphale asked gently.
Crowley shook his head slightly, then suddenly sat bolt upright. ‘Gonna throw up.’
Aziraphale swore, calling for a nurse, looking around desperately for something to catch it in. He wasn't fast enough; Crowley doubled forward over the edge of the bed, clutching his stomach. A strained noise clawed its way up his throat and he heaved, vomiting onto the floor. Aziraphale stepped quickly out of the way, sitting down on the bed, rubbing Crowley’s back, speaking softly to him as he coughed and shook and spluttered. The rancid smell reached him and he grimaced, trying determinedly not to breathe through his nose.
Adam came hurrying back in with Dr. Hunt tailing him, a bucket in his hands. He handed it to Crowley and spoke quickly into the radio in his hand, asking for a cleaner. Crowley sank backwards onto the pillows, eyes closed, his arm wrapped loosely around the bucket. His face was a sickly shade of greyish green.
A cleaner came and swept up the mess, disinfecting the floor until Aziraphale coughed a little at the toxic odour. He sat beside Crowley, head in one of his hands, holding Crowley’s hand with the other.
Crowley opened his eyes a little, looking around the room. They flicked over Aziraphale and Adam and Dr. Hunt before settling on the ceiling, staring straight ahead.
‘I thought I'd feel better after that,’ he mumbled. ‘But I don't.’
Aziraphale looked down at his lap, not sure of what to say.
‘This is how it’s going to be now, isn't it?’ Crowley murmured. ‘It's only going to get worse. That's just how it is.’
For a moment no one said anything, then Dr. Hunt spoke up. ‘You finish your first cycle of chemo tomorrow, Crowley. You’ll be able to go home for a bit.’
Crowley muttered something, throwing an arm over his face.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said that's not going to change the fact that I feel like shit!’ he snapped hoarsely. ‘I've been up all night wanting to puke and thinking about everything. This is how it is, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I go through a few months of feeling like death or I actually die.’ He laughed humorlessly. ‘Go figure.’
‘You aren't going to die,’ Aziraphale said quietly.
Crowley looked over at him and opened his mouth as though he was going to speak, then seemed to decide against it. He directed his gaze back at the ceiling.
‘I know.’
-
The minute they got home, Crowley collapsed on the couch and pulled a pillow over his face.
‘Jesus Christ, it’s good to be home.’
Aziraphale smiled, dumping Crowley’s bag at the door. ‘It's been weird having you gone. It happens sometimes, when you go away, but I never quite get used to it.’
‘Good. I'd be pissed if you didn't miss me.’
‘Well, I do, so shut up,’ Aziraphale rallied.
‘Don't be mean to the dying guy.’
‘You’re not dying.’ Aziraphale shook his head. ‘Drama queen.’
‘Fuck off.’
Crowley looked out from under his arm, staring in distaste at his bag. ‘They gave me enough pills to sink a boat. The next few days are going to be lit.’
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, laughing.
‘We should have a party. Invite everyone. We’ll play drum and bass music and trip out on co-coda-whatever-the-fuck-it's-called.’
Aziraphale fished the box out of the front pocket of the bag, reading the text on the back. His eyebrows raised. ‘It says it's ‘highly addictive’.’
Crowley grinned. ‘Even better.’
They slept in Crowley’s bed that night, cuddling lazily for an hour or so before Crowley suddenly turned sheet white, threw up in the sink and passed out.
Aziraphale sighed, feeling Crowley’s arm tighten around his waist as he slept, the quick, steady thudding of his heart beating against Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale became hyper-aware of it, counting each beat, unconsciously syncing his breath with it. It was strong and regular and he couldn't quite fathom how it could be pumping death around his body, slowly killing him from the inside out.
He covered Crowley’s hand with his own, lacing their fingers and closing his eyes, trying to focus on the distinctly alive feeling of Crowley’s breath against his shoulder.
-
On their last day before Crowley went back into hospital, they spent the entire day on the sofa, re-watching Planet Earth II.
Crowley lay with his head on a pillow in Aziraphale’s lap, a blanket pulled over his body, only half awake. A bucket sat on the floor beside him; it had become his almost constant companion.
Aziraphale threaded his fingers through Crowley’s red hair, playing with it absently, very invested in the story of a plague of locusts travelling across a country.
Aziraphale frowned – something was tickling his arm. He looked down.
Froze.
His hands were full of strands of Crowley’s hair.
He let out a shaky breath, carefully plucking a dark curl off his arm. There wasn't a huge amount, but it was enough to scare him, and he could see a small patch of scalp on Crowley’s head.
‘Oh, no,’ he murmured, not sure whether to move his hands. ‘Crowley, your hair.’
Crowley shifted sleepily, then suddenly stiffened. His hand flew to his head and he threaded his fingers through his hair and tugged gently. Several chunks came away in his hand. He stilled, staring at them.
‘Oh.’
Aziraphale bit his lip.
‘That’s… new.’
They dumped the strands in the bin. Crowley had his hands shoved determinedly in his pockets, resisting the temptation to run his hands through his hair.
‘If I brush it or wash it it's just going to fall out,’ he said emotionlessly.
Aziraphale didn't reply.
Crowley cracked his knuckles, staring at the pieces of his own hair amongst the juice cartons and wrappers and tissues. ‘I’m not ready.’ He pa
prguitarman
gummygunk
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
pixelskylines
germansingergirl
2087
