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In Which Crowley Has Chronic Pain, prettydizzeed’s disability fics
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Published:
2019-08-11
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2,325
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1/1
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diamonds falling down

Summary:

“Those are nice,” Aziraphale says lightly, and Crowley blinks.

“They’re new,” Crowley says after a moment.

Aziraphale thinks better of saying I know, fearing it might be interpreted as a slight when he’s simply being honest; he’s sure he would have noticed if Crowley was wearing knee braces when he spent the night two weeks ago.

“They’re nice,” he repeats, and then wants to kick himself over the word choice, but Crowley still looks gently shocked, so Aziraphale shifts smoothly to wanting to kick whoever made Crowley feel like Aziraphale’s lack of disgust is such a miracle.

That is probably, he realizes after a moment, a bit sacrilegious, but, well. These wingtip boots were made for bruising the shins of God Herself, or something.

Notes:

title is from “Her Diamonds” by Rob Thomas, a song about his wife’s chronic illness, which gives me a whole lot of feelings because it’s coming from a perspective of ‘i love this person so i feel bad along with them when they’re in pain’ rather than blaming one’s partner for their disability, resenting it, etc

heads up there will be some discussion & exploration of internalized ableism in this fic but overall it will be very soft

will turner tugging off elizabeth swann’s boot and kissing her knee in pirates of the caribbean deeply influenced me at a formative age

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Crowley, Aziraphale notices immediately, isn’t wearing skinny jeans.

He doesn’t bring it up because, well, what if it’s something Crowley’s sensitive about—Aziraphale has accidentally upset Crowley by some offhand comment about Crowley’s fashion choices more times than he’d like to count—and besides, they’re at dinner, there are better things to focus on, like the thread count of the tablecloth or the pattern on the silverware or, if he’s feeling brave, the way it almost seems like the lenses of Crowley’s sunglasses are a shade lighter than usual. And it is, in all honesty, a bit terrifying to even consider giving away that he’s looked at Crowley’s legs enough to tell the difference.

Not that it’s hard to miss.

Regardless, they eat dinner like usual and Crowley opens the door to the Bentley for him afterwards like usual and proceeds to drive at an unholy and breakneck speed like usual and then, as he shifts into park when they reach the bookshop, he asks, fake casual, “Am I staying over tonight?” in a way that is incredibly close to becoming like usual.

Not quite, though; Aziraphale still has to catch his breath, unnecessary though it should be. “Of course, dear, if you want,” he says, and Crowley nods, because Crowley has never said I want within Aziraphale’s earshot and Aziraphale certainly didn’t expect him to start now.

They skip tea or even wine, this time, because they’d eaten later than normal, having gotten carried away with a discussion-slash-argument about Milton (Crowley being certain he was Below, and Aziraphale equally positive he’d seen him Above, and neither of them able to ring up home office to say for sure anymore), and besides, Aziraphale is tired. Which is probably just the power of suggestion, if he thinks about it, but the thought of lying in bed with Crowley is a powerful suggestion, so he can’t be blamed for failing to resist it, or to even attempt to do so.

“Is it okay if I change?” Crowley asks once they’re in the bedroom, and Aziraphale once again thinks better of teasing him for phrasing it that way when it’s not like he’s about to change into anything. This time, it’s not just because he recognizes he’d be just as flustered as Crowley at hearing him ask if he could undress; Crowley looks even more nervous than he did the first time they did this, which Aziraphale wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says instead. “Are you alright, dear?”

Instead of answering, Crowley takes his pants off, deliberate, awkward despite what are clearly his best efforts to the contrary. He visibly debates between staring defiantly at Aziraphale and avoiding eye contact, which doesn’t make any sense to Aziraphale, but then again, he’s usually a bit perplexed by the nature of Crowley’s insecurities, even moreso now that he’s actually allowed to glimpse them on occasion. 

“Those are nice,” Aziraphale says lightly, and Crowley blinks. “They look a bit complicated,” he admits, and Crowley settles definitively on staring at him, but in—awe, maybe, instead, which makes Aziraphale’s heart clench (literally, of course, because he expects it to feel like forming a fist, and so it does). 

Crowley tugs his shirt off and sits on the edge of the bed. 

“They’re new,” he says finally.

Aziraphale thinks better of saying I know, fearing it might be interpreted as a slight when he’s simply being honest; in addition to the sudden change in jeans, he’s sure he would have noticed if Crowley was wearing knee braces when he spent the night two weeks ago.

“They’re nice,” he repeats, and then wants to kick himself over the word choice, but Crowley still looks gently shocked, so Aziraphale shifts smoothly to wanting to kick whoever made Crowley feel like Aziraphale’s lack of disgust is such a miracle.

That is probably, he realizes after a moment, a bit sacrilegious, but, well. These wingtip boots were made for bruising the shins of God Herself, or something.

They were custom-tailored, actually, in a time where that purpose was definitely not in mind, but he supposes they should suffice.

“Right,” Crowley says faintly, and starts undoing the Velcro. They are complicated, that wasn’t an overstatement; two main sections to attach each brace around his leg, one above the kneecap and one below, and then four additional straps, plus metal hinges on either side of the knee. The look is sleek, though, all black—it’s very Crowley, honestly, which makes Aziraphale smile softly to himself.

He watches in fascination as Crowley undoes the straps swiftly, with a clearly practiced hand—and that thought trips him up, because yes, that’s right; ‘new’ is a relative term, and it’s obvious that Crowley is used to these, at least enough to keep looking at Aziraphale for several long seconds at a time without fumbling whatsoever as he pulls each strap through the plastic loops and lets it hang beside his calf. Aziraphale’s first reaction is to be hurt—why did Crowley feel the need to keep this from him?—but he stops to consider it. They’ve been doing that, lately, the considering one another’s intentions thing, ever since Crowley said in a rush one evening while rather drunk, “You know, it hurts that you always seem to assume the worst of me,” and then they’d had to sober up and unpack that, until Crowley eventually admitted he didn’t mean always and perhaps he had a bit of a tendency to exaggerate, and Aziraphale eventually admitted that perhaps he had a bit of a tendency to jump to conclusions that had next to zero basis in his 6,000 years of experience with Crowley’s character.

So they’re working on it, so he pauses and asks himself genuinely rather than rhetorically why Crowley might not‘ve felt comfortable sharing this, and then he amends it to ‘sharing this immediately’ because he had, in fact, shared it, and it was unfair to dismiss the weight of that.

Good Lord, the layers to both of them, he thinks. A thousand neuroses each and still taking the time to pick their way around the landmines and pick up the pieces after every misstep. What a miracle this is. What a blessing.

Crowley, just as soft as Aziraphale himself, but with all his fashionable armor, his carefully constructed sharpness, his sunglasses. I don’t know why he bothers, it’s not like he’s fooling anyone, Aziraphale has thought on multiple occasions, now that his most prominent memories of Crowley are nothing other than open and raw—We could go off together. Alpha Centauri. I lost my best friend. I love you.—but he remembers, when he stops to think about it, how well Crowley did in fact have just about everyone fooled, including Aziraphale. Especially Aziraphale.

Perhaps Crowley sees this, too, as a weakness that must be protected by hiding it. An unacceptable softness—or, maybe acceptable to him, but not to the rest of the world. Not to Aziraphale, or at least not worth risking, not at first. 

Crowley sets both braces to the side, and Aziraphale’s tangent is interrupted by two vastly different thoughts. The first is that it looks so painful—Crowley’s bare thigh is striped red with the clear outline of every seam, loop, and strap. It’s vaguely purple along the worst sections, particularly where the ends of the metal hinges evidently dug into his legs, and when Aziraphale studies those places closer, he sees that there are faint, light brown bruises there, as well. His heart hurts at the sight.

The other thought, in sharp contrast, is that the black knee-high compression socks Crowley is wearing look—well.

Well.

...Rather attractive. 

Crowley has always had nice calves, that’s just a fact, and one that Aziraphale made his peace with long before he thought he’d ever be allowed to look at them. He’s always looked good in stockings or hosiery or tights, and the trend holds true; his legs look—well, shapely has certain sexist connotations to it, doesn’t it, and that isn’t his intention, but. Sexy, definitely.

“Angel,” Crowley says, and he’s smirking tentatively when Aziraphale looks up, like he’s not sure if he’s interpreting things correctly, “you’re staring.”

Aziraphale flushes. “Right, well, I’m sorry, dear, it’s just that—” It occurs to him suddenly that finding a clothing article intended for a medical purpose attractive is probably incredibly and inherently inappropriate. He swallows.

“It’s just that you think they’re hot,” Crowley says, and crosses his legs at the ankle.

“I—I don’t want to be—to be fetishizing, Crowley,” he says, and Crowley shakes his head.

“You aren’t.” He tilts his head, considering. “Well, maybe some people would be uncomfortable with it, I s’pose, but to me, it’s like—you’re not into me because I’m disabled, you just happen to be into me,” and Aziraphale does not fail to catch the slight, soft smile that Crowley is clearly attempting to fight back here, “and I happen to be disabled, and so it makes sense that you’d be into that part of me, too.”

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t believe what you’re saying?” Aziraphale asks gently, and Crowley crumbles.

“Maybe ‘cause I don’t,” Crowley groans, running his hands over his face. “Not quite, at least.” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him in a clear ‘go on’ gesture, and Crowley rolls his eyes at him but continues. 

“I thought you might hate them,” he admits quietly. “Or—or be upset about them, or something.”

Aziraphale reminds himself again that this fear probably isn’t about him, or at least, not really, not at its root.

“Do they help you?” He asks. Crowley nods. “Then I love them, dear.” He shrugs, and he’s sure that his expression is hopelessly earnest, but he doesn’t look away. “That’s all there is to it.”

“All right,” Crowley says softly, then flops backwards on the bed and closes his eyes. He cracks one open to look at Aziraphale after a moment. 

“The fact that you’re still totally dressed is really increasing the feeling of vulnerability over here, you know.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale says, and Crowley nods. “Then I suppose it’d be the polite thing to do for me to undress.” Crowley nods again, grinning at him now, and Aziraphale takes off his waistcoat and shirt and pants, then lays down beside him.

“Do we need to talk about this some more, dear?” he asks, and Crowley shakes his head.

“Not right now, at least,” he says. “Got better things to do.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale asks, and very lightly traces Crowley’s skin where the compression sock meets the lower edge of his left knee. “May I, my love?” he asks, lips hesitating over Crowley’s thigh, and Crowley nods, tipping his head back and fumbling with one hand to take his sunglasses off, which feels like—not a victory, that’s the wrong word, he’s not fighting Crowley, not anymore, but—an invitation. A gift. 

Aziraphale kisses the red indentations of stitch marks on the center of Crowley’s thigh, then all the way down it, then hesitates just above Crowley’s kneecap and says, “Tell me if anything hurts, please, dear,” and Crowley makes a sound that’s largely indistinguishable but definitely affirmative, so Aziraphale brushes the lightest of kisses onto Crowley’s knee. Then he does it again, and again, on either side, and harder along the inside of Crowley’s thigh, flicking his tongue out against the deep lines from where the hinge itself sat and feeling a bit silly about it until Crowley moans, so he does it on the other side, and then the other leg, as if he actually could make it better—not the leg itself, of course, which is perfect, which is Crowley’s, but the brace, so that something that helps him wouldn’t also obviously hurt so much—

He just barely touches his lips to each bruise on Crowley’s upper thighs, so carefully, and it feels rather more like a prayer than anything else he’s done in the past 6,000-and-some-odd years.

Aziraphale cautiously hooks his thumb behind the edge of the sock on Crowley’s right leg and folds it down about an inch, just enough to lay bare the pink outline left behind by the seam. He holds the back of Crowley’s calf with one hand, firm but not enough to be uncomfortable, and sets his mouth to those marks, as well. By the time he has done the same to Crowley’s left leg, by the time he finally dares to look up, Crowley is flushed and looking down at him with wide, wild eyes, yellow all the way to the edges. Aziraphale shifts to softly kiss his mouth.

“I love you,” he says, idly running a palm down Crowley’s calf. “I’m sorry they do, well, this,” he continues, making a vague gesture at the patterns along Crowley’s skin, “but I’m glad you found something that helps you.”

“‘S worth it,” Crowley says, shrugging and not quite looking at him. “Some days, they’re the only thing keeping me upright.” His expression shifts, and he tilts his head to grin at Aziraphale. 

“Guess I could say you make me weak at the knees.”

Aziraphale gapes at him for a moment, and Crowley laughs as Aziraphale rolls his eyes and lightly swats him on the shoulder. “I should hope not, my dear,” he says dryly, and Crowley shakes his head.

“Nah, you’re right, don’t really need any help with that one. More like, ‘he is so striking he makes / my body forget it has knees,’” he says, looking at Aziraphale out of the corners of his eyes, something open and earnest in his expression.

Aziraphale smiles softly, taking in the weight of it, then trails his thumb along the side of Crowley’s kneecap.

“Oh, you forgot, did you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at him. “I suppose I’ll have to try a bit harder, then,” he says, and does.

Notes:

who needs to write a historical au for the hosiery when you can have a disability instead

i’m not the biggest fan of Rupi Kaur’s poetry tbh but the lines that Crowley quotes towards the end Get To Me as someone with severe chronic knee pain

i’m on tumblr @campgender and i have a chronic pain & disability sideblog @crippleprophet if you want to say hi!