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The weather tonight is exceptionally fine, and London is experiencing a mysterious blackout. Between the unusual lack of light pollution and the cloudless sky, the stars have seldom shown so brightly above the city.
It is after midnight. Officially, St. James’s Park is closed. Even the ducks are nowhere to be seen. The two beings lying on their backs in the grass, however, are not bothered with such details.
“You know,” Aziraphale murmurs, rolling to face Crowley, “the first time we watched the stars, I didn’t know some were yours.”
“I remember.” Crowley stretches. “You said you liked them.”
“I did. I still do. More than ever.”
Crowley makes a vague sound in his throat.
“Not as much as I like their artist, though.”
Crowley makes an emphatic, equally unintelligible sound in his throat.
Aziraphale hums.
“Funny thing,” Crowley says eventually.
“Hm?”
“When I made them, I didn’t know what they’d look like from Earth. Didn’t even think about it, really.”
“Oh?”
“They’re beautiful up close. I’ll show you, sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
“Almost better down here, though.”
“Mm.”
“Definitely more sparkly.”
Aziraphale laughs, softly, and rolls to face the sky again.
They lie there, bathed in starlight, until sunrise.