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Cantata of the New Constellation
A Good Omens fanfiction
Years after the rebellion and – later – the Fall of the first man, Adam, after that whole 'apple eating debacle' (another story from another time, and doubtless one you've already heard many times before), there were a great many myths and stories centred around the appearance of a certain constellation in the night sky.
A constellation we know today as Corona Borealis, or 'the Northern Crown'.
But these stories were incorrect.
In actuality, this Northern Crown was made from the fragmented, faintly humming, pieces of broken halo which had belonged to a certain red-haired angel who never stopped looking at his beloved stars, even as his wings and angelic grace were consumed by Hellfire.
But perhaps the best way to hear the story, to understand the true significance of this event, is second-hand, as it was told – by a fairly effectual bard – to someone who knew the pain and loss of the rebellion – of the collective Fall of so many formerly shining, bright, perfect beings – very, very well.
Listen.
Things were just beginning to get back to normal.
Or rather, the archangels said things were beginning to get back to normal, and that this was good – and certainly it was, undeniably – but things didn't feel normal to the principality Aziraphale. Sometimes he wondered if things would ever actually feel normal again, after what happened, after that ghastly war he still relived if he let his mind wander too far unoccupied.
The other angels acted – mostly – like they were getting over it, though. Sometimes he wondered if that meant there was something wrong with him, something broken and unfixable. It made him feel a little bit like a fraud. As if the higher-ups were bound to notice the obvious fault, the weakness of a mind that would not mend, and ask themselves, "What, this angel's still here? This one? Really?"
And it was rather funny – though not in a very amusing way – to think, of all the exquisite angels that were lost to the other side, he – Aziraphale – was still here in Heaven.
So he went, daily, through the motions of tidying up his space, checking on various members of the platoon that had been under his command during the war, smiling brightly, humming cheerfully as he worked, and basically pretending nothing was wrong.
"Tip-top," he said, with forced cheer, until the phrase lost almost all meaning, "everything's just tickety-boo, what. Buck up."
Aziraphale was not good at this. His 'encouraging' smile was always just a little too wide, too tightly stretched out, like his face was straining not to crack. Imagination had never been his strong suit. He wondered if anybody, particularly Gabriel, the archangel who functioned as his usual boss, was actually fooled.
Probably, he thought, Gabriel was only pretending, too.
Although, privately, he hoped he was wrong about that – because the idea that everyone, even somebody as important as Gabriel, was groping through this recovery state of Heaven's development blindly was bloody terrifying.
These sort of things were ineffable, of course, but one did like to hope they weren't that ineffable – leastwise, not quite.
"Ahem."
Aziraphale, lost in thought, jumped and scattered a jumble of parchment and empty sword-sheaths he'd been sorting through across a generous length of pearly floor. "Ah. Gabriel. Hello."
"How are things going over here?"
"Splendid, just splendid."
"Good, good, that's what I like to hear." He extended his arms, revealing a stack of paperwork under what appeared to be a frayed, wide-set book bound in a soft, flexible-looking, partially dusty material. "I've got a quick errand I need you to run today."
Aziraphale tried his best not to grimace. The paperwork since the rebellion had been atrocious, not to mention several forms had gotten destroyed in the Great War and had had to be filled out again – by him – painstakingly.
Gabriel didn't act as if he even noticed Aziraphale's discomfort. "Take these forms and bring them to the angel Azariah." He rearranged a handful of pages, sliding the book out from under them. "Most of them are filled out already–"
Aziraphale exhaled in relief. Azariah was located out of office, which meant he'd have to go into the work-field of the starmakers in order to bring it to him, but if there was less paperwork, a brief change of scenery might even be good.
"–although, your signature will be needed on the top two, of course, and I'd like you to double-check a few of these in the middle."
"Of course." He struggled not to visibly tense up again – it didn't sound like that much of a break after all. He'd likely spend the whole time getting there going over the blasted forms and technicalities and scarcely get to enjoy the trip. "And, er, the book?"
Gabriel's brow sank, then – glancing down again – he seemed to realise what Aziraphale meant. "Oh, yes, the book – well, it's nothing of serious concern, not for you. It simply needs to be returned to Azariah, so he can properly dispose of it. And if you're already going up there with the paperwork, it seemed only reasonable."
"Right, yes, naturally." Aziraphale shifted from one foot to the other, uncertain why he was suddenly rather nervous, why his palms were growing uncomfortably moist and clammy.
Gabriel handed him the paperwork and the book.
His fingers tingled; the binding gave slightly as he handled it. Gabriel was talking again – further instructions on what greetings he was meant to extend to Azariah – and Aziraphale heard them but in a distant, dimly registering manner, the forefront of his mind preoccupied by burning curiosity about the book.
He – rather ungracefully – tucked the paperwork under his armpit and began to lift the cover.
Gabriel's hand came down, stopping him. "Hey. No. Don't look in there."
"W-why..." He cleared his throat, trying to hide his unexpected stammer. "Why not, pray?"
The archangel's violet eyes narrowed. "Because that belonged to one of the opposition."
"Oh – dreadfully sorry – I thought you said it was Azariah's."
"No, Aziraphale; he's just going to dispose of it for us. Destroy it." Gabriel shook his head. "It's in his division."
"But destroying it?" Aziraphale asked. "I mean, what if it–"
"What's in the work of the opposition that concerns us?" He was wearing a sharp expression which strongly suggested giving the wrong answer, or even asking another question rather than meekly accepting what he was being told, would be detrimental to his immediate future.
"Nothing," Aziraphale sighed, letting his hand slight away from the binding, trying to look anywhere but down at the book.
"That's right."
Last celestial shuttle to the third quadrant of the northern hemisphere now boarding. Please find your seats and prepare for departure.
Aziraphale swung a cream-and-gold satchel over his shoulder and made certain the gleaming clasp held it properly closed. Safely inside was the bulging paperwork – which he still hadn't double-checked and signed, afraid he'd get caught up looking it over and miss the shuttle – and, of course, the sketchbook.
He made his way to his seat and set the satchel down under the seat in front of him.
There was a faint tink-tink as the shuttle began moving.
He rested his head against the window for a moment, looking out at the starry sky. Cooped up inside the more corporate areas of Heaven, one almost forgot this indescribable beauty even existed. Yet here it was, all around – dazzling points of light, thousands and thousands of them, so many different hues of yellow and blue, and even red and faintly pink in some cases. It was so literal, so solid, so inexplicably warm. It was like approaching a long driveway to a rendezvous at somebody's house, expecting it will be a bleak and dark trek to get there, and discovering they've left countless lights on for you.
It was encouraging, lifted the spirits.
Aziraphale might not have been one for imagination in general, but he did sometimes allow himself to consider what ifs. And one of these was what life as a starmaker would be like. He was glad, really, he himself was not one, too aware that he was painfully unqualified for such a job – but it must be nice, he thought, for those who knew what they were doing. Being out among the cheery lights, feeling the matter of the universe move around you while you worked... That sounded all right. Rather freeing, even. He wondered if they flew around with their wings spread wide under the starlight during their breaks – that's what he would have done, if he were them.
Bending forward, he reached for the satchel again, meaning to look at that paperwork, have it prepared before he arrived to hand it over to Azariah. Nobody was going to bother him here. The other angels on board – all five of them, two fellow principalities Aziraphale had a nodding acquaintanceship with and three seraphim who didn't have time for such pleasantries – spread out with dozens of empty seats left between them in this roomy shuttle – were pouring over their own bits of work, entirely absorbed in their individual tasks. One chap had his wings out (Aziraphale thought he might have been moulting, since he kept absently rubbing his back against the seat as if he had an itch), another there on the seat across from their own, but they still looked busy and professional. Not at all as if they wanted to stop and chat.
Good.
His plump fingers slid past the bundle of paperwork and locked around the sketchbook.
He shouldn't.
But it was going to be destroyed, anyway, once he gave it to Azariah. There wouldn't be another chance to see what was inside, and Aziraphale would always wonder.
Glancing sideways over his shoulder, he drew it out, pulled back the cover, and shifted himself so that the bulk of his body was blocking what he was examining. His cheeks were flushed pink, as if he were about to look at something naughty. Even the purest thing, once forbidden, takes on another meaning completely to our natural corporations when we decide to consider them.
His eyes rested upon a gorgeous, detailed image of the Lyra constellation.
That was when it dawned on him – the former owner of this sketchbook must have been a starmaker himself (otherwise, he would not have been under Azariah's jurisdiction), but he was not just any star-maker. He was one of the all-time greats. One of the masters. This wasn't just a copy for reference of the Lyra; it was the original concept.
Aziraphale had been to Vega (Alpha Lyrae) for a business trip once; Gabriel had brought him along and complained unceasingly the entire time (apparently the angels taking a holiday on the next star over were singing much too loudly). The view and music in Aziraphale's opinion, however, had been rather glorious. When they'd first approached the constellation, he'd had a giddy feeling from his stomach right down to his toes. He didn't bother mentioning this feeling to Gabriel, who was too busy asking the shuttle attendant if they knew who he was, but he'd felt it, right enough.
It was so beautiful.
The enraptured principality ran two of his fingers over the sketch, and it sort of pinged faintly (a little like a note from a plucked stringed instrument) under his touch, then – suddenly terrified he would smudge it – yanked them back and turned the page, smoothing the back of it down protectively as he examined the next sketch.
"Dreadfully sorry," he murmured, to nobody in particular.
The other sketches – each one more breathtaking than the last – filled his mind, like a luckless but lovely tune stuck on repeat, until he nearly forgot about everything else. He did not think any longer of where he was, what he was meant to be doing, or of the neglected paperwork in the satchel currently being nudged and slightly wrinkled by his absently swinging right foot. He was just a pair of wide angelic eyes following the models for perfect stars that seemed to reflect off the pages because of the way the artist had shaded all around them and left certain parts strategically blank.
Then his hand (the one under the book, not the one turning the pages) gave him a message which sent the principality crashing back into reality.
Not very many pages left.
Not to mention the page he was currently on seemed unfinished and it was just possible the next few – even the last few – might be blank.
Someone tapped his shoulder – he sprang forward, panting.
It was one of the other principalities. "Isn't this your stop, mate?"
"Oh, yes, of course it is." He slammed the sketchbook shut and fumbled to pick up the satchel (the strap of which was tangled around one of his ankles now) and stuffed it back inside. "Thank you."
"Are you all right?"
"Certainly." He gave his best pretend, much too tight, smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"
It would be hard to explain Aziraphale's disappointment with the blue-black, star-dotted fields as he stepped out of the shuttle into the open space and saw his own breath in front of him. He had been thinking it would be warm – after all, given how those stars glowed, how could it not be – and working conditions would be cheery and glorious; but, in actuality, it was rather cold, even a little damp. The starmaker angels who were beginning to pack up their toolboxes, presumably to go on break, did not look very happy. They looked busy, and like hard workers, certainly competent and reasonably contented with their lot, but nothing like the rapt, starlight-bathed faces Aziraphale vaguely envisioned on his way here, looking at the fallen angel's sketchbook, thinking what he must have been like before he Fell.
It wasn't so different from the office in feeling, really – only the view was prettier.
Except – and this was one thing he had not really pondered on the possibility of and thus was pleasantly surprised by – some of the stars were singing. You had to concentrate a bit, over the noise of the construction, to really hear them – but once you caught a strand of their tune, you couldn't help but be deeply touched.
All the same, Aziraphale had expected a bit more.
Well, regardless of his disappointment, he had a job. And he couldn't avoid doing it forever.
"Excuse me." He waved to the nearest tool-packing angel. "Where might I find the angel Azariah? Gabriel's sent some paperwork for him."
He clicked the lid of his toolbox, snapping it shut. "Principality?"
"Yes."
"We don't see many of you around here."
"No, I suppose you wouldn't."
The angel gave him a tiny, friendly smirk and held out his hand. "Jozadak."
"Aziraphale."
"Let me guess." He bit his lower lip and raised a finger pensively. "Eighth choir?"
"Oh, er, Ninth, actually."
"Eh, I was close." He motioned with a wide, gesturing wave. "Come on – Azariah will be queuing up with the others to meet Elias – that's where I'm headed, too – I'll take you there."
"Thank you, that's very kind." He quickened his step to keep up with the starmaker's wider strides. "Who is Elias?"
He gave him a look over his shoulder. "I'd ask if you were living under a rock – but I'm the one out here in the middle of nowhere. You've really never heard of Elias?"
"'fraid not."
"Bless me, what do you even talk about around the office on your breaks if you've never discussed him?"
"Well, you know, Gabriel's not too big on breaks – likes to keep us on our toes and all that – but who is Elias?"
"Simply one of the best storytellers of our lot – master of planting pictures in your head when he speaks."
"Oi, Jozadak!" a rather squeaky voice behind them called out. "Wait up."
Jozadak groaned.
Aziraphale glanced over and spotted a youthful-looking angel with tiny hands and a smattering of grey-blue freckles across his pale nose running up behind them. "Who's that?"
"He's new," sighed Jozadak, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. "The Almighty only created him about a hundred years ago, give or take. And he's been assigned to us for the last decade. He means well, but he's so desperate to make himself useful we're always jolly well tripping over him. Just once I'd like to slip off for a break without him breathing down my neck."
"Oh, my dear fellow, don't exaggerate, he's not breathing down your–" began Aziraphale, then stopped, as the younger angel had just gotten close them, hovering with wings outspread and flapping noisily, and was – for all intents and purposes – quite literally breathing down Jozadak's neck. "Or perhaps he is."
Together, Jozadak biting back his aggravation and evidently taking it in stride, they continued on their way to see Elias – the three of them, now.
An unpleasant feeling began plaguing Aziraphale, the nearer they came. He was thinking about the sketchbook. Silently wringing his hands and wishing he were any place else. Thinking about what a shame it would be if it were destroyed. What a great loss to the cosmos! Gabriel had been confident there was nothing of concern within those pages, but now that Aziraphale had seen them, he wasn't so certain he agreed.
Far, far from it.
But what could he do? He had to give over the paperwork and the sketchbook; that was the whole reason he was here.
He was so wrapped up in dread he nearly missed it when they reached Elias. Then he took a curious peek over at the bard angel and forgot he was meant to be looking for Azariah. Elias had a face that, if you took the parts of it into consideration individually, was nothing remarkable. The short, silvery hair, the large forehead, and the greyish-green eyes might have belonged to any being – and they were not striking, they didn't catch you off guard with an usual hue or flash of knowing something you did not. But taken all together, he was rather a handsome fellow; his features suited him. And they suited his profession as well. He had a pleasant face to watch for the expressions that crossed it when he spoke, but nothing so distracting so as to take away from his words. He could come forward in your mind or blend into nothing, largely at will, with an unassuming corporal form of that manner. Rather ideal for a storyteller.
His wings – overlapping wide-set feathers of a faint, dusty silver-tipped white – were out and were quite beautiful. They were also surprisingly well groomed for an angel with a full-time occupation.
"And what story shall I tell today?" Elias asked the gathering crowd of worker angels with stardust on their calloused, tapered hands.
"The one about the day God made the sun."
"No, better, talk about the time God separated light and darkness and gave the starmaking angels leave to choose what colours would go in-between!"
"No, no – tell us the one about the time God first made angels – like us!"
The youthful angel who'd pestered Jozadak piped up. "Tell us about that constellation." And he pointed to the Northern Crown. It was singing, too, all of its stars emitting a lilting celestial harmony that could break a heart or else mend one, depending on the mood. "The one that sounds sad."
"Sad?" said another angel, puzzled, who heard it rather differently – as some do. "It isn't sad. Never sad. I think it rather a cautionary kind of song, though what it cautions against I couldn't say."
"Not caution, I shouldn't think," argued Jozadak. "Not caution. Longing."
Several angels agreed with this interruption and nodded at each other, but others did not and they shrugged.
"Why that constellation, friend?" asked Elias, lifting a pencil-thin, silvery eyebrow.
"It's new," said the youthful angel, as if it were obvious (and perhaps, really, it was). "Like me."
"It wasn't here before the rebellion," explained Jozadak to Aziraphale, hastily.
Elias clucked his tongue. "It is not a happy story, and perhaps you are mistaken – those stars, might they not always have been there? Same as they are now?"
"I worked every day – day and night – where the Northern Crown is now – it was not there before."
"If you will it, young friend, I will tell it," Elias sighed.
Once there was a starmaking angel who loved his stars. As far as beginnings go, that is perhaps not remarkable, but the angel himself was. He really was. He loved his stars and his stars loved him back. He painted the sky with wonders – nebulae so rich the stars made new songs up about them and the other angels said it was very good and commended him heartily, bashfully struggling to hide the fact that if they looked at them for too long they forgot everything else – and was as skillful as he was beautiful.
And he was beautiful indeed. His halo emanated a light so brilliant it could flood the darkest void with golden warmth. And when he moved, the light followed him in such a way it appeared he was leaving a trail of stardust behind each step he took.
Then one day there came the rebellion, and – as you all know – it was wretched. Friends were torn apart, each horrified at the choice the other had made. Likewise were the stars to be parted from their maker.
He had asked questions, see. Questions he shouldn't ought to ask. Questions the devil himself might have put in his head.
When it came to it, he refused to give up the other names of those on his new master's side (and perhaps, in fairness, he did not know – for many of them had changed their names when they joined Lucifer's army). The result would have been the same, though, either way; he was cast out. Broken wings and a forced dive from Heaven into some place else.
The Heart of Heaven cried for him, when he fell.
He was one who would be deeply missed. Before that day, before he was cast out, the universe had not known what immeasurable sorrow was.
Some say he was not entirely consumed when he fell – some spoke of how he would not quit looking to his stars for help, golden tears streaming down his face.
And that, friends, is where your – or rather his – Northern Crown comes from.
"I don't understand," said the youthful angel. "How did it come from that?"
"From his halo, you see."
He didn't.
Someone Else cried, too, that bitter night – they say it might have been God, sorry for the path the once beautiful creation had taken. Some say that God was even sorry for ever creating what was to be lost.
Some say.
No one knows – not for real – anything but this: the pieces of the fallen angel's shattered halo were taken by hands unseen and placed in the sky.
And, oh, how the sky adores that broken thing. The sky cradles the fragmented pieces protectively, like fine china shards broken in transport, the gold rim and elegantly painted patterns still shining in the dark, casting light, singing celestially.
"And there it has remained," finished Elias, in a hollow voice. "There will never be another like him, you all know.
"He is gone forever, damned. He who helped build the most flawless of nebulas, and came up with the whole concept for Centaurus – making Alpha Centauri so astounding that angels still come from all over to see it at the prettiest time of year– and drew up the plans for Lyra – it was his idea to have those pairs of binary stars which orbit each other.
"Orion, that was him as well. Rigel, brightest of them all; what a remarkable blue – almost silver. And the Betelgeuse, exactly the opposite, but such beauty! Who else would have thought of putting them together in the same constellation? Flaming red and silver-white blue!
"Few angels ever knew colour as he did! Not even the most miniscule differences in the hues of darkness and the shifting changes in white light escaped his notice. He could capture any colour you could think up and smear it into a masterpiece across the sky. There are some shades of colour entirely lost to your average starmaker, now he's gone. Only he knew how to get them just right.
"He understood more about what makes a star beautiful than most of us will ever know. Bad enough that Heaven lost a third of its angels – very, very bad that one of them would be him."
Aziraphale knew it, then. The knowledge was chilly and foggy in his mind, like a miserable mist. For he knew now that the angel from the sad story Elias had just told was the one whose sketchbook he was meant to hand over to Azariah.
He didn't think he could.
No, he knew he couldn't.
But he was supposed to.
But he couldn't.
As Elias had told the story, it was as if Aziraphale could see that angel – all angles in shape with a brilliant mop of gingery, fiery hair and a warm smile as he watched his stars, took in the work of his hands, and thought to himself that they were good. If, apart from the Northern Crown, the unfinished sketchbook was the only thing left of him – if he were now an unrecognisable demon who could pass any of his past comrades and they'd never know it – how could he give it up to destruction?
God couldn't want that. Not if it was God who put the halo fragments in the sky. Not if God made Elias such a wonderful storyteller that could convey such loss and had arranged matters so Aziraphale heard a story he otherwise would not have.
All the same, to take it upon himself to defy Gabriel's wishes, even secretly...
How could one live with doing that?
How could one live with not doing that?
He prayed silently, eyes half closed, fingers trembling. Lord, help me to make the right choice.
The moment came, and then it went – in that rather anticlimactic way that even the ominous moments strangely do – and Aziraphale took the bundle of paperwork out of his satchel; he handed it, and nothing else, to Azariah, who thanked him politely.
"Will you stay the evening with us?" Azariah offered, counting pages.
Aziraphale held his breath, frightened he knew about the sketchbook somehow – he was probably the fallen angel's boss and had seen it before, after all – and was going to ask him, going to accuse him of stealing it for himself.
"N-no," he forced out, his tongue heavy, "thank you kindly, but I've got to be getting back – Gabriel will want to know that the delivery was made today." Gabriel would want to know no such thing – he expected it to be done simply because he'd told Aziraphale to do it, that was all, he wasn't sitting at the office fretting about it. Lying and stealing all in one day – the guilt was an almost tangible thing. "I'd best be on my way."
The worker angels had finished their break and were moving back towards their stacked toolboxes.
Aziraphale inched away, giving himself another long look at the Northern Crown constellation.
It seemed now to be singing to him alone.
The song was of longing, he thought – Jozadak was just about right.
The light must have known it came from a source very different to that of the other stars, and they were singing for their angel – and mourning him, missing him ever so dreadfully – and perhaps they were singing to Aziraphale now because somehow they knew what he'd just done.
It might even have been a song of gratitude, of thanks.
But they had nothing to thank him for. He was just another angel, weighed down by the recent tragedy of the rebellion, so numbingly catastrophic, leaving him as lost as any of those poor stars.
And yet there was solace in their light. That something broken, ripped away, could still be so unspeakably wonderful to behold...
It made Aziraphale yearn to feel a hope that did not come naturally to his heart these days. Maybe, for this once, he could almost imagine he did feel it, well and truly, and that it was all around him, in the sing-song light.
He wished he could take the light back with him, a tangible thing to hold onto forever – or at least until the pain of the rebellion subsided a bit more. There was no way of knowing what would come next.
To possess a light like that, held in his hands, where he could see and treasure it and know it radiated a strong feeling of inexplicable love...
The open palm of his hand patted the satchel, feeling for the contour of the sketchbook. It would have to do.
Many, many years later...
Aziraphale and Crowley had spent the day looking at the New Exhibition of Da Vinci's sketches at the British Museum. For some reason Aziraphale never quite worked out, Crowley always wanted to go see any and every public event to do with Da Vinci, and then proceeded to whinge about how none of what was on display was as good as the original sketch he'd bought off 'good old Leonardo' ages ago and currently had hanging in his Mayfair flat.
But they always went to those things together anyway, almost as if it had somehow, without being verbally discussed in any way, become cemented as part of their Arrangement.
They'd retired to the bookshop afterwards.
They were in the back room, sharing a bottle of fine wine and some chocolates with questionable fillings Crowley had brought from the museum's gift shop, when Aziraphale announced he had something he wanted to show Crowley.
Crowley – slumped over the side of the couch – pulled himself up a little straighter and murmured something rather incoherent.
"I hope you don't mind, my dear," said Aziraphale, rather brightly, red-faced from the wine, "but I noticed you've had something of a budding interest in astronomy as of late. You never seem to read about anything else."
Crowley cleared his throat. "Yeah?" His glassy, gold eyes were slightly defensive.
"Well, I've got something I thought you might like – something I saved from after the rebellion in Heaven."
Crowley made a little choked noise and then tried to disguise it as a cough.
Aziraphale paused politely, then resumed, reaching behind his seat. "It belonged to a starmaker angel – he's meant to be one of your lot nowadays – and it was supposed to be destroyed, but I looked through it first and I..." Holding out the sketchbook – battered by time, the binding softly worn but well-preserved in still accessible condition, as only an angel can keep a physical item – he noticed Crowley's expression change completely, flaring with recognition. "My dear fellow, don't look at me like that! I simply thought you might like to see it!"
But Crowley was sobbing. Of the uncontrollable variety. Really sobbing, with shaking shoulders and his hands over his face.
Alarmed, never having seen Crowley like this, Aziraphale placed the sketchbook down on the seat behind himself and stumbled over to his side, throwing his arms around the crying demon. "Whatever is it?" And gently he pulled Crowley's hands off his face and their eyes met.
"It..." managed Crowley, hoarsely. "It...it...was... It was mine." His damp face collided with Aziraphale's shoulder. "They took it away before they cast me out."
That was when Aziraphale, soothing him and rubbing his back until he'd calmed down, understood.
He had had part of the Northern Crown with him, for a long time now, almost six thousand years – only he'd never known, never guessed nor suspected. What an idiot he was! How could he have completely failed to notice his own dearest Crowley matched the description perfectly? The red hair and starlight-coloured eyes!
He tried to wipe them dry, those weeping starlight eyes, and the tears slid like little glittering comets down his thumb towards his plump wrists.
"Oh, Crowley," he whispered, ashamed at his clueless insensitivity, thrusting upon him the sketchbook that had really been his all along without warning, after all this time. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?" Crowley sniffed, sounding truly mystified by Aziraphale's apologetic tone.
And that was when he saw the demon was smiling at him. The tears streaming down his face had not been those of unbounded sorrow or a surge of memories he could not bear; they were tears of joy.
"When I have a terrible need of – shall I say the word –religion. Then I go out and paint the stars." – Vincent van Gogh