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Night had fallen while the angel slurped down a truly impressive number of mollusks and Crowley sampled several cups of wine that was more than drinkable. The conversation meandered – work, politics, music, theater – and slowly, he felt his bad mood melt away, one terrible joke at a time.
All the while they reclined upon the couches, facing each other across the table, Crowley felt an odd warmness bubbling inside, percolating a little stronger every time Aziraphale smiled in his direction, or even just asked him a question. Something as simple as that, how are you finding the city? He couldn’t put his finger on why it affected him so, except that no one – no one – had asked him anything of the sort. Not in the entire time he’d been in Rome.
In fact, come to think of it, not since the last time he’d spoken to Aziraphale.
As they stepped out into the street, he caught himself thinking that maybe…maybe this city wasn’t so bad after all. Not if it brought evenings like this.
Aziraphale walked beside him, looking up at the sky. “Oh, it’s too cloudy to see the stars. More’s the pity. I always like to see them, you know.”
“Do you?” Crowley hated it. Didn’t even look at the sky, not if he could help it.
“Oh, of course. They’re so lovely. Truly works of art. I always envied the Starmakers, you know, the angels of Creation. Such a glorious task.”
“I…I was one of them, you know.” He didn’t know why he was saying it. The wine was the easy excuse, coiling warm in his belly, but he didn’t think that was the case. It took more than an amphora or two to loosen his lips. But something inside of him seemed trying to work itself out, something that had sat, listening to Aziraphale all night and…perhaps…wanted to reach back across the divide. “I helped build the stars.”
“Did you? Oh, that’s – that’s truly wonderful! Why, I can’t even imagine – what a gift, Crowley!”
“Nh. Well. Not anymore.” He tried to smile as he said it, but his face wouldn’t cooperate. He tipped his head back to stare at the clouds. Misty and cold and distant, like the remnants of the fires that once had run inside him. “Only angels can Create. Demons Manifest. Not the same thing.”
“Oh, my dear…” He felt a soft hand brush his arm, just for a second, before pulling quickly away. “I’m so…truly sorry. That was a great loss, I should think. I can’t even…”
“S’not that bad,” Crowley sniffed, walking a little faster.
“But it is!” Aziraphale hurried to catch up. “Why, I’ve always wished I could Create! It’s a true wonder, to be able to – to shape the raw matter of the universe. I even tried—” He stopped, horrified.
“You’ve tried making stars?” Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. Would this angel ever cease to surprise him? “You’re a Guardian, aren’t you? That’s forbidden!”
“I…” Aziraphale looked at him, aghast. “Oh, no I-I-I didn’t mean…that is…naturally a Guardian would never attempt an act of Creation that’s…that’s…that would be a breach of-of everything…”
“You can tell me,” Crowley leaned against the concrete side of an insula, the shop window beside him boarded up for the night. “Let me guess. Blew up in your face? Forces too much for you to control?”
But the angel turned pink, looking suddenly a little angry. “I’ll not be mocked by you, Crowley. You know perfectly well nothing happened!” He slumped a little. “How could it? I’m not designed that way. I never had the spark of Creation in me.” Then, in a softer voice, “You truly had something special, Crowley, something the rest of us…”
Something about his posture, his tone of voice, the air of utter defeat, made Crowley’s heart shudder in his chest. “Look, you want to know a secret?”
The words were out before he knew what was happening. He shouldn’t tell Aziraphale this; he’d never told anyone this. The questions he’d asked – the things he’d learned – had led to his Fall. He wouldn’t put anyone through that, not his worst enemy, and Aziraphale was far from that. But one little secret would be safe. He pushed off from the wall, stepping closer, leaning in to put his mouth close to Aziraphale’s ear, so that his sharp cheekbone brushed lightly against the soft curve of Aziraphale’s face, sending shivers of lightning through his body.
“There’s no reason you can’t,” he whispered. “All angels were created the same. The classifications, the categories, the ranks…it’s all lies.”
Aziraphale’s head snapped up. “You – that’s – Crowley!” But he didn’t pull away, didn’t shout. His voice was almost as hushed as Crowley’s own. “That’s got to be blasphemy of – of some kind. The Archangels—”
“The Archangels want you to think they’re different. That they’re better somehow. They aren’t.” He stepped back to look Aziraphale in his wide blue eyes. “And any angel is capable of Creation.”
“You’re lying.” But he didn’t sound like he believed it. “This is a trick…a temptation…”
“I can prove it. I can teach you to make stars, right now.”
He bit his lip, eyes wide as a dwarf star about to go nova. “Oh, I…I…” The angel glanced up at the cloudy sky again. “Could you really?”
“Hold out your hands. Like this.” Crowley cupped some air between his palms. Hesitating, Aziraphale followed suit. “Now close your eyes. Run your fingers through the atoms. Can you feel them? Feel their weight? You just need to find the smallest ones, the lightest. Those are Hydrogen. Don’t worry, they’re everywhere.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed in concentration, reminding Crowley of the first time he’d tried to light that fire, accidentally smothering it with every grasping attempt. “Don’t struggle. Just…feel for them. A little at a time. Pull them into the center and push them together.”
For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen.
Then, slowly, a tiny spark ignited at the center of his hands, glowing, growing, expanding as atoms crashed into each other, colliding, fusing. Shining.
The first star Crowley had ever made had been a tiny, fitful thing, flickering between his fingers, fading now and again, but oh, how he’d loved it. Carried it everywhere until he was told it would never be strong enough, had to be dissipated and made anew.
Aziraphale’s was healthy, strong, lovely. A perfect star. He should have been jealous, but he felt proud.
When the core was the size of a marble, Crowley carefully reached over and plucked it free – no need for this to explode in the center of the world’s largest city.
He hadn’t realized how much he missed it, the endless heat between his fingers, illuminating the darkest places within him. He felt lighter than air, he felt alive, he felt –
He felt like he was home.
“No, I told you Crowley, it’s no good. I can’t…” Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open and landed on the tiny glowing bead between Crowley’s fingers. “Is that…it can’t be…”
“You made it, Angel. All you.” Crowley handed it back, carefully placing it on Aziraphale’s palm. A wave of cold struck him, sharp as the ice in the deepest pits of Hell, the moment the bead left his fingers. But somehow, he didn’t care.
Aziraphale held it up to his face and the glow lit him, the pure, perfect light filling him, like a candle covered in glass. The starshine danced off his eyes. And his smile, oh, Crowley didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful than that. He wanted to stare at him, drink it all in, hold on to this moment forever.
And then it all ended when Aziraphale held out his hand, giving him the star back. “What? Angel, that’s yours—”
“No, it isn’t. It’s ours. I never could have made this without your help. And I think you should have it.”
Crowley tried to step back, bumping into the wall behind him. “No - look - I relinquish my claim, whatever you need to hear.” He couldn’t believe Aziraphale actually wanted to give it to him. Surely it was just some polite nothing.
“Ah. Then it is mine to bestow upon whom I choose.” Aziraphale’s soft fingers caught Crowley’s hand, lifted it, until he felt the spark of celestial fire pressed into it again. “You must understand, I love it dearly. But...I can make another. You can’t.” He wrapped Crowley’s fingers closed around it, gave them a gentle squeeze. “It’s as radiant as you are, my dear friend. Please, take good care of it.”
Crowley stared down at the little perfect light, the piece of his past he’d never thought to reclaim, and found that his eyes were wet, that he had to blink back tears, for the first time in four thousand years. A warmth filled him, one that had nothing whatsoever to do with the star.
He looked up at Aziraphale and, quite without meaning to, smiled.
“Ah, that’s more like it,” the angel said, with a smug little grin. “You’ve been so sullen it was giving me indigestion. Perhaps now we can have a proper conversation.” He turned and walked away, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing at all had passed between them, with that bastard smile that Crowley loved—
Crowley loved—
Ah. Shit.
Crowley loved Aziraphale.