Work Text:
Aziraphale spreads the picnic blanket across the grass, straightening it’s rumpled edges and aligning its corners with the cardinal directions. In the shadow of the Bentley’s headlamps lies north, where their heads will rest as they look to the south for the supernova.
When Crowley had asked him a few days ago if he'd liked to drive out to the country and spend the night watching a star go supernova, he'd jumped at the chance. And, of course, the very first words to follow his enthusiastic "yes!" were "would it be alright if I brought along a few things for a little picnic?"
Crowley had agreed, but only reluctantly, so Aziraphale had been determined to choose something Crowley would surely enjoy.
The centerpiece is two bottles of a 1953 Salon champagne, perfectly aged at thirty years old. He has the remainder of a case back at the bookshop, but there is no need for more champagne if they are to spend the night stargazing. This he places in the center of the tartan blanket in a bucket of ice, along with two favored champagne flutes that are barely two hundred years old.
The rest of the spread consists of a handful of nibbles he'd noticed Crowley eating over the years. A dozen quail eggs, soft boiled and then marinated in a tea leaf sauce; a dozen crostini topped with smoked salmon, herbed goat cheese, and cucumber; half a dozen skewers with bite-sized chunks of pheasant and fresno pepper; and half a dozen grilled oysters, seasoned with herbs and brandy. These he displays artfully around the champagne bucket while Crowley paces in the distance, alternating between watching the setting sun and checking his watch.
“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale calls out after several minutes of subtly adjusting the arrangement, and dithering over which side of the blanket Crowley might prefer. “Would you please come back? We’re all set up now, unless you’d like some pillows?”
In the end, Aziraphale chooses the right side of the blanket, and Crowley appears at Aziraphale’s feet while he’s still trying to make himself comfortable.
“Tartan?” Crowley asks, sighing as if further protest is beyond him at the moment. “Of course it’s tartan, what was I thinking.”
Aziraphale ignores the comment and summons himself and Crowley a few pillows so that they may recline comfortably and eat in the Roman style, as they had in days long past.
Crowley snorts to see that they have been made to match the blanket perfectly and stretches out; a black and hellfire smudge on the tartan, a (funhouse) mirror image of Aziraphale.
What a picture they must make; a demon listening intently as an angel of the Lord explains their menu for the evening.
They eat and drink in easy companionship as the sky grows darker, and darker, until they really do need the extra lights from the Bentley's headlamps to finish their meal. Or at least, Aziraphale does. Crowley continues to wear his tinted lenses, as if there's any need for them at the moment.
Aziraphale tries not to let that uncharitable thought ruin his good mood. Crowley had eaten nearly as many of his carefully selected hors d'oeuvres as Aziraphale himself had, and the satisfaction of that bubbles away inside him, far more intoxicating than the champagne.
Instead, he clears the mess of their picnic with a careful miracle, already thinking of ways to justify it to Gabriel should the need arise. The champagne remains in the center of the blanket.
The Bentley’s headlamps go out the moment the food has gone - courtesy of Crowley, no doubt - and Aziraphale draws in a startled gasp as the night sky lights up with stars. He’d forgotten what the sky could look like, after so many years living in London and its slowly (then rapidly) increasing light pollution.
“Oh, Crowley, ” he breathes, full of wonder and quiet delight. “I’d forgotten there were so many.” He can feel the weight of Crowley’s stare, but he can’t make himself look away. Several long and silent moments pass with Aziraphale gazing, awestruck, at the heavens, and Crowley gazing at Aziraphale.
“There it is,” Crowley says reverently, startling Aziraphale into turning to look at him. His glasses are gone from his face, and Aziraphale finds himself caught in the liquid gold of Crowley’s eyes even though they’re turned away from him. He stares, and stares - so long that Crowley glances his way to check in.
His face flushes under Aziraphale’s scrutiny, and he makes a small noise. It’s only then that Aziraphale notices his outstretched hand pointing at a spot in the southern sky.
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, likely flushing himself, now. “Sorry I- I seem to have gotten a bit… distracted,” he apologizes, a little absently, and looks in the direction Crowley is indicating.
He doesn’t see anything, really. Just a myriad of stars. He’s never seen a supernova before, that he knows of. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be seeing?” he says finally.
Now Crowley is the one off-kilter and apologizing. “Oh, sorry. Human’s wouldn’t even notice it, probably. And if they did, it’d just look like a new star they hadn’t seen before.” He steals a glance at Aziraphale’s face. “Do you always use your human eyes? Default settings and all?” he asks, sounding incredulous.
“Usually,” Aziraphale replies, a little sharper than intended, and sharpens his eyesight. He leans closer to Crowley, their heads almost bumping together, to try and follow his line of sight down the length of his arm.
“Oh,” he says softly, “I think I see it! Blue and orange and getting brighter?”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Crowley say quietly, a sense of desolation sinking deeper into each syllable, and lowers his arm. “ Althaeban, ” he rasps, “the serpent.”
"It's beautiful," Aziraphale offers, with all the warmth he thinks Crowley can stand. He hopes it's enough to chase some of the sudden chill from his voice.
"It's dying." The words are cold, and sharp; but Aziraphale understands a little, now. The sudden void he feels carving out a place in his chest must be hollowing out a piece of Crowley too.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Aziraphale says, letting his head rest against Crowley’s in silent sympathy for a heartbeat. For two. He starts to reach across the distance between them; but it’s a stretch too far to make alone, and his hand falls somewhere in the middle of the blanket instead, where it traces the pattern woven into the threads.
He wonders if Crowley has noticed that it’s the same tartan he wears around his neck.
“Was it one of yours?” he asks instead, gentle as a falling feather, pulling back to study Crowley’s face. He hopes the question wasn’t a mistake.
“No,” Crowley answers, wide-eyed and stricken, then, “yes.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his burnt copper hair, glancing at Aziraphale and then back at the dying star.
“It’s complicated,” he says after a moment, rolling to lie on his back. It sounds more like an invitation than a dismissal.
“The universe often is.” Aziraphale shifts further onto his side, leaning a little more toward Crowley. “You could explain it to me, if you like.”
Crowley laughs, and it only sounds a little bitter and hurting. “No one could explain the universe, angel. It’s ineffable and all.”
Aziraphale huffs. “You know what I mean!”
In silence, Crowley watches the dying star, and Aziraphale watches him. It stretches on so long Aziraphale starts to look away, sure Crowley will say no more about it.
“I didn’t make Althaeban myself.” Crowley sounds like he’s having to drag the words up from somewhere deep, but they don’t pierce Aziraphale like “it’s dying” had.
He makes a soft, encouraging noise to urge Crowley on, trying not to interrupt any more than that.
“But the star that helped create Althaeban was one of mine . ”
That seems strange, enough that Aziraphale can’t stop the quiet “Oh?” that leaves his mouth.
“A very long time ago, even by our standards, there was a star the humans called Eltanin, “the dragon’s head”, and it was a part of the constellation Hydra, just like this one. It was brighter, and some travellers used it to guide their way south through the night.” He turned his head slightly to flash a quick, wry smile at Aziraphale before turning his gaze back to the stars above them.
“You’ve heard of three of them, I’m sure. The three wise men - the magi? They followed Eltanin to Bethlehem.”
“But I thought-” Aziraphale begins, but stumbles a little over his own tangling thoughts. “I thought the star of Bethlehem was sent by God to guide the wise men to the birth of the Christ child?”
“Might be She planned it, might be coincidence, but who am I to know?” Crowley shrugs, and continues on. “But the eastern star wasn’t just some sign. It was a real star, and it appeared to the magi, too bright to be ignored, while it was dying.”
A tear runs from the corner of Crowley’s eye, and Aziraphale feels he ought to look away from such private and unfathomable grief, but finds he cannot.
“Eltanin grew brighter and brighter as it burned itself out, and when the magi arrived in Bethlehem, it began to fade, already collapsed in on itself.” Crowley clears his throat. “That’s what they do, you know. Grow and grow until they flame out, collapsing into explosions that create new stars, new galaxies.”
Aziraphale leans over Crowley, reaching across him to touch his shoulder gently. “Oh, my dear, I didn’t know.”
Crowley stares up at him, golden eyes less human even than usual, the pupils narrowing to thin slits even in the dark before widening again. His jaw works, but his mouth does not open, as sometimes happens.
“Why did you want to show me this?” Aziraphale questions him, but it’s not accusing.
“Don’t you know, angel?” There are more tears dripping from the corners of Crowley’s eyes now, and his mouth twists into a smile as cutting as any blade. “You’ve always been the Star of Bethlehem to me; my guiding star, my Eltanin .”
Crowley reaches up to cup Aziraphale cheek, and Aziraphale turns his face into the caress, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s palm.
In the morning they unwrap themselves from the tartan picnic blanket, and from each other. They don’t speak of that night again, but they each watch the southern sky every night until even their far-flung senses can no longer perceive the death throes of the star called Althaeban .
The champagne bucket and its contents are never seen again. Aziraphale does not mourn the loss of his antique champagne flutes. He feels sure he knows where they've gone.