A/N tw for eating disorders, self-hatred, body dysmorphia, body shaming, and unhealthy feelings of guilt around food.
⁂
Aziraphale pushed the food, some medley of chicken and peanut sauce that had once been a favorite, around on the plate. The scent encircled him. Sweet and utterly delicious. Welcoming. He knew how delightful it would taste as it touched his tongue, nearly sinful in its savory.
Soft.
Gabe's words burrowed further into his head. Had he truly let his vessel turn into something unbecoming? Sickening? If so he shouldn't eat, especially not something as calorie-ridden as this. But Aziraphale didn't want to waste the food.
Surely that would be a crime in itself?
Maybe he could give it to someone who needed it?
He hadn't eaten yet today, though.
Appalled, both by the train his thoughts had taken and his lack of self-control, Zira stood abruptly from the table, took the plate in hand and dumped the whole thing unceremoniously into the garbage. There, wasn't that better? No more fretting over it, because he certainly wasn't going to go after it now. His stomach rumbled, filling him with the soon to be familiar feel of bubbling burning acid.
It was a strangely warm sensation. Maybe it wasn't something he could get used to, but he could most definitely endure it
See now? It wasn't such a terrible feeling.
⁂
Aziraphale stood in front of the mirror and, after brief internal scolding at his vanity, turned a critical eye onto his own form. Yes, he did have a gut. And the way his hips overflowed from his waistband, providing soft pillowy little mountains of flesh, was utterly unacceptable. Not to mention the loose skin beneath his chin, or the thickness of his thighs.
Soft.
He did not want to be soft any longer. Unbidden his thoughts turned to Crowley, to his body. To the hard planes of his chest, easily distinguishable through his ridiculously tight-fitting suits. The elegant lines of his jaw, the ease with which he walked, the way humans and demons alike turned to watch him go with more than a spark in their eyes.
He wasn't jealous, only he disliked the thought very much and wasn't quite sure why. It didn't matter anyway, he told himself. He was not some vain creature who needed people lusting after him. Zira just needed to get himself in shape to appease Gabe.
That was all.
⁂
In the two weeks since his enlightening conversation with his boss, Zira felt like he might've lost a bit of weight. He hadn't eaten very much and he felt rather poorly but he'd managed a walk around the park without getting too lightheaded so he was in high spirits by the time he returned to his bookstore.
Aziraphale couldn't remember if his vessel would become ill without food or not. Well, of course, it would eventually, but he didn't know what time frame he was working in. Part of his objective for today involved figuring that out, digging through his books for those bits of archaic knowledge.
His plans came to a screeching halt as he noticed the black Bentley on the corner when he saw that familiar lean shadow on his doorstep. Crowley. Zira had missed him dearly of course, but a selfish part of him was disappointed he's still so, so-
Soft.
He wanted Crowley to see him as sleek and fast and lovely, not unlike that blessed car of his. The demon in question glanced up from his phone as Aziraphale approached, concern quickly marring his face, "Bloody hell! Angel, are you okay?"
Zira frowned softly and it's just then that he noticed how strange everything looks, little black dots seemed to be dancing in his eyes, making everything just a tad blurred and dizzying. "Quite alright, dear. And yourself?"
"Better than you, that's for damn sure." Crowley all but spat, one hand wrapping firmly, but gently around Aziraphale's arm to steady him, "What's the matter? Are you ill?"
"No! Of course not! I just got a b-bit dizzy, out in the sun and all, you understand."
Crowley hissed something decidedly vulgar and guided the angel into the store.
⁂
Hours later Crowley sat across from Aziraphale and contemplated how on Earth things have gotten this bad. The angel in front of him had lost damn near 20 pounds. The soft, slightly flushed cheeks are gone, leaving pale sunken skin in their place. The cream waist-coast visibly hung off his hips, no longer snug and well-shaped. Zira's jacket appeared several sizes too large for him, swallowing up his shoulders and back, leaving him with a tired husk-like appearance.
Wracking his head for anything that could have possibly triggered this, soon proved to be asinine. He hadn't even been gone that long, only two weeks. Truly he's torn between wanting to believe he caused this and the horror of what unknown might have instead.
Torturing himself with such images may offer the purgatory he deserved but it does nothing to help Zira, Crowley reminded himself. He'd attempted to get his, the angel to talk to him for damn near an hour now. His gentle prods and quiet coaxing words were met with flippant, airy excuses so unlike Zira that he was further thrown in dismay.
Crowley ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a sharp breath. Aziraphale's eyes snapped up to meet his own and he offered a sheepish smile as if in respite for his refusal to speak. "I don't understand why you won't just tell me what's happened," Crowley reiterated for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Because nothing has! Honestly, Crowley, I'm absolutely fine,"
He resisted the urge to growl again. He hated that word. Fine. Dismal, unbecoming, not a word that should ever describe the angel. Zira should never be just fine. Magnificent is a much more suiting word. Stunning, fabulous, perfect, any of them would do. Just not fine.
Crowley decided he hated the word fine.
"I'm not leaving until you come up with a better answer than that," The demon warned, all softness out the window as he settled himself stubbornly in the seat. He'd stay here all night and day if that's what it took.
Aziraphale's blue eyes rolled in a decidedly un-angel like manner as he muttered, "As if I care."
"Sassy today aren't we, love?"
Crowley took a decidedly demonic delight in the blush that sprang to his cheeks at the pet name, the added benefit being Zira looked a little less like a ghost now. He had snapped up a spread of all sorts of sweet things that usually appealed to him, but the angel had claimed he felt nauseous and wasn't at all hungry.
And watching as the red spots in his cheeks faded quickly, once more replaced by that tired, strained expression Crowley's stomach clenched, an awful mix of worry and fear settling deep in his bones.
The demon supposed he was in for quite a wait. But that didn't bother him. No, what tore at him far more was what he might find at the end of it.