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crowley is pretty sure this is the best he’s ever felt! crowley is also pretty sure this is the worst he’s ever felt!
he’s noticed aziraphale starting to get worried, after all it has been six days of this already, but crowley is fine! everything is great, and he’s never had any problems ever!
it’s around midnight when crowley decides he wants to leave his flat and head to the bookshop. sure, his angel is probably busy reading, but there’s never a bad time for crowley to stop by, not when he feels this good, and has all this love to share!
so, crowley breaks into a sprint out of his front door, accidentally leaving it open as he admires the blackberry sky speckled with vibrant stars, while his corporation struggles to keep up with his pace for the twenty minutes he runs for. technically, he could have just miracled himself there, but what’s the fun in that? there are very few cars on the streets of soho this late, which is good because crowley doesn’t even look before running across the street to the bookshop.
he miracles the wooden doors open, and bursts inside, running up the stairs and promptly falling down them. he scrambles to get up because he has to see his angel, because he loves his angel, and because everything is so good, and so bad, and- he falls again as he’s getting up, disrupting his train of thought.
he sees aziraphale rushing down the stairs. at the same time, he feels the cool winter breeze against his body- i forgot to close the door- as well as the sweet aching pains from his corporation hitting the ground. the sensation of hitting the ground almost felt good against his buzzing skin. he almost wants to try again, just to see how it’d feel to fall a third time. maybe there’d be blood that time- that’d be nice-
“crowley?! are you alright? what on earth could you possibly be doing this late? aren’t you usually asleep by now?”
aziraphale steps over crowley to close the door, before rushing back to his aid.
“hey aziraphale! don’t worry ‘bout me, i’m right as rain! did you know that rain is actually caused by- ooh! a penny-” crowley says, pointing at a penny that he’s already forgotten was superglued to the ground by him a few hours ago- “anyways, sleep is for losers, haven’t done it in six days and i feel great without it!”
aziraphale sighs and helps crowley back onto his feet and up the stairs, until finally they’re both sitting on aziraphale’s bed.
“crowley, i think you might be having one of your episodes again, do you think that might be possible?”
crowley laughs, standing up to pace around the room. “no, stop being a negative nancy, i’m great! anyways, i was thinking, what if i moved into your bookshop with you? wouldn’t that be fun,” he asks, not realizing he’s practically yelling.
“oh, crowley, i think that’d be lovely, truly i do, but i also think you’re acting impulsively. how about we talk about this in the morning if you’re feeling more yourself then.” aziraphale pats the space beside him, urging crowley to sit back down. crowley ignores the gesture.
he groans loudly. “see, this, aziraphale, this is why i hate you. you’re no fun, and you always think i’m having ‘episodes’ when i’m fine!”
aziraphale looks hurt at the words.
“wait, no! i’m so sorry, angel, i don’t even know why i said that! it’s like i can’t stop the thoughts in my head from coming out, i need help,” crowley says, as his eyes start to well up.
aziraphale sighs, stands up, puts his arm around crowley’s shoulders, and leads him back to bed.
“angel, i’m not tired...”
“please, dear, just get some rest for my sake. we’ll talk in the morning.”
crowley sighs, nods, and lies down, closing his eyes. aziraphale gently places a weighted blanket over him, and steps out of the room.
-
a few hours later, crowley wakes up and groans. the episode of sorts seems to have worn off, finally, and crowley is starting to feel the effects of not taking care of yourself for nearly a week. he hasn’t slept in a while, and sure, technically, his corporation doesn’t need sleep, but it helps him mentally, and right now, he needs all the mental help he can get. his body is all sore from tumbling down the stairs, his front door is probably still open, and he’s pretty sure he made a fool out of himself in front of aziraphale.
he hears aziraphale coming up the stairs, and dread pools in his stomach.
aziraphale opens the bedroom door.
“oh, you’re up! how are you feeling,” aziraphale asks.
“shitty, but not insane anymore, which is good.”
aziraphale looks disappointed, as he sits down in his armchair next to the bed. “you’re not insane crowley, and i’d prefer if you didn’t refer to yourself as such.”
“okay, sorry.”
“you’re quite alright, dear. anyways, i spent the few hours you were asleep doing research in my psychology section and the internet, and i believe what you’re experiencing is bipolar mixed mania.”
“meaning...?”
“oh! yes, well, basically: you feel on top of the world, and at the same time you kind of- well- you kind of want to die. you’re impulsive, you’re short-tempered, and you experience word vomit, so to speak. simultaneously you feel so exhausted that you don’t want to do anything at all. it can leave you feeling like you’re buzzing, shaking, and even ‘piloting a dead body running on an energy drink’, as i’ve heard it described. it can technically be controlled, but it is incredibly difficult to do so without medication.”
crowley is silent for a moment.
“i think... i think that’s it, angel.”
“oh, good! i’m so glad we’ve figured it out!”
“i guess i am too...”
“is everything alright, crowley?”
“it’s just that, now that we know what’s wrong with me, it feels like maybe i haven’t even been me all this time. like, i’ve just been a collection of symptoms for my whole existence.”
“oh dear, that’s not true at all! you’re still the same crowley that i’ve always known! you’re still brilliant, and funny, and well- incredibly dashing-” aziraphale’s face reddens slightly- “anyways, my point is, you’re still crowley. and if you need more proof, we can see just how ‘you’ you are if we get you on an anti-psychotic mood stabilizer.”
“will i still be the same person on the meds?”
“of course you will crowley, and if you don’t feel like you are, we can take you off of them, okay?”
“okay...”
-
it’s only the next day when crowley has his psychiatry appointment, thanks to a few minor miracles, and needless to say, crowley is nervous. he keeps shaking out his hands, and taking deep breaths, but nothing is really helping to calm his nerves. aziraphale gently takes hold of his hand.
as a side note, he did eventually go back to his flat to close his front door, so his anxiety isn’t from that.
the walls are a dull cream color, and they’re littered with posters with various mental health and substance abuse catchphrases, as well as the numbers for various suicide lifelines. there's also about twenty dark blue chairs in the room, though crowley doubts they’re ever all full, given that he and aziraphale are the only ones currently in the waiting room.
“anthony j. crowley? the doctor is ready to see you,” a woman in a white button down and black trousers says, as a girl about maybe fifteen walks out from behind her with someone who’s presumably her father. crowley and the girl give each other a look that forms some sort of solidarity among the two, as if to say, “we’re both ‘crazy’, so we won’t judge each other.”
aziraphale squeezes crowley’s hand before letting go, so crowley can follow the woman into the office.
she leads him to a drunk-tank pink room, where a woman in a gray hoodie sits in an office chair.
“welcome. i’m dr. baker. i’ll be assessing you today. have a seat,” she says monotonously, gesturing to the sage green sofa behind her desk. crowley sits down.
“so, tell me about what you’ve been experiencing.”
-
when crowley is finished, dr. baker gives him a bipolar diagnosis, as well as adhd, and prescribes him the anti-psychotics he needs.
crowley walks back out to the waiting room where aziraphale is patiently waiting for him.
“how did it go?”
“you were right: bipolar. and adhd which makes sense, but i wasn’t expecting it.”
“how do you feel?” aziraphale stands up, grabs crowley’s hand, and the two make their way towards the door.
“reassured, i guess? i don’t know, this whole thing is weird.”
“i completely understand.”
“i don’t think you do, if i’m being honest,” crowley says, opening the door for them to leave.
“you’re quite right actually, i don’t know if i’ll ever be able to understand, but i’m here for you.”
“thanks, angel.”
the two make their way towards the bentley and get inside to head to their local pharmacy to pick up crowley’s new meds.
-
it’s been eight months since crowley started his meds, and he hasn’t had a manic episode since. a few depressive episodes, sure, but he’s always been better at managing those.
his psychiatrist is kinda useless, but she refills the meds. aziraphale has honestly been more help than anyone, but crowley is learning how to rely on him only a healthy amount.
and, crowley still feels like himself.