#I’d rather be fat than have a bunch of loose skin (why don’t they warn you about that before they tell you to starve yourself??)

[cutestguy]

“Plastic surgery addiction” this and “plastic surgery addiction” that. I just want to not have a breakdown over the way my body looks every day

[lady-divine-writes]

31 Days of Ineffables - “Making an Effort” (Rated T)

Summary: Every morning, Aziraphale sneaks out of bed to go for a run without telling his husband.

One day, Crowley finds out. (1839 words)

Notes: Written for @drawlight’s ‘31 Days of Ineffables’ prompt ‘warmth’. Warning for talk of anxiety and self-esteem/body issues.

Read on AO3.

Slap … slap … slap … slap …

The soles of Aziraphale’s trainers hitting the wet asphalt sound exactly the way he thought they would.

Like the shoes of a fat man hitting concrete.

It’s not that difficult a thing to describe, nothing poetic about it.

He could definitely do with a break, stop into a nearby shop and warm himself up with some cocoa and conversation, but he won’t let himself. He’s committed to this. Committed to changing, to evolving, to becoming something better than he is.

Something better than he sees when he looks in the mirror.

He erases thoughts of warmth and cocoa from his mind and tries to focus on the positives of being out here … jogging … alone … in the early December gloom.

At this hour of the morning, he gets to see the glorious sunrise. It brings him closer to God, bolsters a connection he’s felt lacking as of late.

Though if that’s not entirely his fault, he won’t own up to it.

At three a.m. when he starts his fitness quest, he gets to revel in the peace and quiet that comes from London still abed.

Oh. But that reminds him that his claim to London, his claim to the world, is also still abed and asleep without him.

Crowley.

He’d rather be with Crowley.

He’d rather be in bed with Crowley, warm and toasty, sipping cocoa and watching the grey clouds pave their way across the sky from behind closed windows.

Crowley doesn’t want this.

He doesn’t know about it, but if he did, he wouldn’t want this.

But won’t he be proud of Aziraphale when he sees the change? The looser clothes, the smoother skin, the closer hugs?

Aziraphale doesn’t have to tell Crowley about his plans in order for his husband to benefit from them, so keeping him out of the loop isn’t a bad thing …

… necessarily.

Great.

Now he’s cold and tired and keeping things from his husband.

How can this morning get any better?

“Looking good, angel.”

A wolf-whistle follows those words and Aziraphale’s heart shudders.

That’s how, he guesses.

Serves him right. He could never really keep secrets from Crowley, could he?

If not, Crowley would have never walked down the aisle of that church, hopping like a drunk jack rabbit, and saved Aziraphale from getting blown to bits.

Aziraphale debates running on by, but he knows Crowley will simply miracle himself to the next bench and wait for him there. And if there isn’t a bench, he’ll snap one up.

Aziraphale slows to a stop, panting from the stress exercise takes on his human form.

“You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“Not making fun,” Crowley says, waiting for his angel to give up the stubborn attitude and come sit beside him. “I mean it. You look good. Of course, you always look good to me, particularly when you’re red in the face and working up a sweat. I just wish you’d stay in bed with me and do it proper. It’s colder than fuck out here!”

Aziraphale glances over at his husband curling in on himself and shivering dramatically in the cold – a subtle attempt to get Aziraphale to cave and sit next to him.

Which he does because dramatic or not, he hates seeing his demon shiver, knowing how thoroughly the cold seeps through his skin. With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale miracles up his own coat and slips it over Crowley’s shoulders, wrapping it around him, frowning when he sees how loosely it bunches on Crowley’s thin form.

“What in the world are you doing out here at this hour of the morning?” Aziraphale asks, as if the answer weren’t ridiculously obvious.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I asked you first.”

Crowley watches his husband sit flush up against him, their arms touching, but from the expression on his face, he couldn’t be farther away. “Well, if you must know, it’s a sad and pathetic fact that I can no longer sleep without you.”

“Is it now?” Aziraphale says dryly.

“Yes, it is.”

“Sorry about that. But it’s easier to run in the morning.”

So I wouldn’t find out? Crowley thinks with a chuckle to himself. “And why’s that? Because that’s how the humans torture themselves, so you have to do it that way, too?”

“Because there’s less foot traffic,” Aziraphale defends. “Less chance of bumping into other runners.”

Or one runner in particular, Crowley surmises, knowing that Gabriel runs these paths on occasion for no reason Crowley can begin to comprehend.

Correction, he does comprehend it. But if he admits it, he’ll be running up the escalator to Heaven’s offices with all his might to punch himself an Archangel.

“If you’re really concerned with avoiding foot traffic, I could get you a treadmill. Or a stationary bike. Or one of those bizarre floaty contraptions that look like they’re from a sci-fi movie.”

“An elliptical?”

“Yes, an elliptical. Then you could exercise till your heart’s content in the comfort of our flat, and I’d get to sit on the sofa and ogle you all day long from behind.”

Crowley winks.

Aziraphale tuts and rolls his eyes.

“But that’s not the point, is it?” Crowley continues. “Because you’re not actually out here to improve yourself.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Aziraphale grumbles. “You know, sometimes you really are a snake.”

“You’re a supernatural entity, Aziraphale. You don’t have to exercise. Not really. You’re not concerned with your heart and your blood pressure. If you wanted to look fitter, you could snap your fingers and do it. Or I could do it for you so Heaven won’t find out.” Crowley lifts a hand out of his coat cocoon for emphasis. “I’m a demon. Expert at taking things apart. One snap and …” He makes an obscene sucking noise “… instant liposuction.”

“So what am I doing, in your expert opinion?”

“You’re punishing yourself, angel,” Crowley says softly. “And you’re doing it over nothing. Over no one that matters.”

Aziraphale wiggles uncomfortably on the bench. He doesn’t move away, but that distance Crowley felt earlier begins to grow. “H-how would you know?”

“Because I know you. I’ve known you for thousands of years. I know your thoughts, your desires, your heart. And I know that the voice in your head, the one that tells you you’re soft, you’re fat, you’re a pathetic excuse for an angel – that voice doesn’t belong to you. It never has. And it doesn’t belong to me either.”

Aziraphale sniffles, digesting those words while he watches the sun rise higher in the sky, lending light and life and hope to a weary world.

And one weary angel.

“It’s … been there for such a long time,” Aziraphale only half-voices, “and I … I don’t know how to get rid of it.”

“Does waking up at the butt crack of dawn and running the soles out of a pair of shoes till your bum knee aches get rid of it?”

“For a while.”

“Is there a chance that … making love to me gets rid of it?”

Aziraphale swallows. When he answers, his voice shakes. “For a while.”

“Then why don’t we do that instead?”

“Because it’s not an easy thing to admit to.”

“I know that.”

“Really?” Aziraphale scoffs. He steals a quick, angry glance down Crowley’s trim body hiding beneath his bulky coat, but never meets his eyes. “And how’s that?”

“You don’t think I have a few voices in my head, too? They might not be your voices, they may not say the same things, but they’re bastards, I’ll tell you that.”

“How do you get rid of them?”

“By doing the things I love – driving my car, drinking, sleeping. But mostly by hanging out with you.” Crowley threads an arm through the sleeve of Aziraphale’s coat and takes his angel’s hand. “Which is part of the reason why you haven’t been able to get rid of me since the day you left Heaven and I left Hell.”

That remark coaxes a partial smile out of Aziraphale. “I’ve been wondering about that.”

“Well, now you know.” Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth, kisses across his knuckles one by one. “Listen, if you wanna keep jogging, be my guest. I’ll even help you.”

Aziraphale shoots his husband a comical look. “How?”

“I’ll … I’ll … I’ll chase you all over this damned park! I’ll throw ducks at you …”

“Crowley!”

“I’ll scream that you stole my wallet till the cops come running!”

Aziraphale does his best to look appalled by his husband’s suggestion, but the laughter twitching his lips at the image it paints wins out in the end.

“But only if you’re doing it because you want to do it. Otherwise … what good does it really do you?”

Aziraphale nods. He goes back to staring while he thumbs through his options, but the thought of Crowley throwing ducks and crying out in fake distress lingers so vividly, he’s certain Crowley keeps planting it there.

“I don’t want to jog anymore,” Aziraphale says finally.

“You don’t?” Crowley asks, not even hiding his non-surprise.

“No.”

“Are you, maybe, in the mood for some crepes? I know a great breakfast spot not too far from here.”

“No,” Aziraphale says with the firm resolve of a man triumphing over demons he’s been battling for decades.

But seeing as Aziraphale married his demon, his answer becomes less convincing.

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. Aziraphale looks resolutely away.

But he smiles, too.

“Yes, I am,” he relents. “But I think I’d like to stay like this for a while, if you don’t mind. Sitting by your side, holding your hand - I want this more.”

Crowley rests his head against his angel’s shoulder. “So do I.”

They sit in silence together and watch the sun climb into the sky.

“This is nice,” Crowley murmurs, closing his eyes to block out the bright and focus instead on the warmth on his face.

“It is,” Aziraphale concurs. Over the thousands of years they’ve spent as friends, and the months they’ve spent as lovers, this is something they’ve had yet to do. They’ve been together in the presence of the sunrise, of course. And the sunset. But sitting together and letting it command their full attention – this is a first.

“You know, maybe I was wrong,” Crowley says.

“How’s that?”

“Maybe we should get up early and do this every morning. Not the running. Just the sunrise.”

“Perhaps. It might be nicer to watch it from the balcony instead.”

“Of course, of course,” Crowley agrees, close to falling asleep. “Much less chance of encountering foot traffic up there.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale breathes in deep, then breathes out deep into the cold, crisp winter air. He should have brought a book. And a Thermos. And a snack. “Can we go get those crepes now?”

“Yup.”

“And after the crepes, can we have sex?”

Crowley grins. “Oh absolutely.”