Work Text:
The light in the Ritz is low, but Crowley can still see perfectly well. Aziraphale sits across from him, chattering away happily about some small thing that has caught his attention. He talks in between bites of his angel food cake - and Crowley burns.
He’s burned like this for millenia - so long, he wonders how he’s done it. By any law of physics, he should have been reduced to ash ages ago. But still he burns, hot and bright and seemingly without end, like the stars he made.
In truth, Aziraphale is more like the star. He is the brightest object in Crowley’s life - the brightest object Crowley has ever known of. He’s made the principality the center of his universe, and Crowley orbits in his glow and warmth, like a lowly planet.
The demon supposes they both burn in their own way. Aziraphale burns with goodness and perfection. Crowley burns with love and adoration.
Crowley is well aware of gods and devils, but the only thing he’s ever praised, the only altar he worships at, is Aziraphale.
He wonders sometimes if he can ever tell Aziraphale how he feels, how he’s felt all this time. He wonders what Aziraphale would do, what he would say. He thinks he’s seen hints of reciprocity in his interactions with the angel, enough to make him hope, but doesn’t know if he’s imagining things. In the lonely hours of long nights, he’s dreamed of all kinds of responses from Aziraphale - from disbelief to disdain to blessed acceptance. He fantasizes constantly about what he would say, and what reaction he’d spark from the angel. Sometimes, when he’s feeling exceptionally brave, he thinks he just might do it. Maybe he’ll do it some random night, when they’re drinking in the back room, enjoying each other’s company. He talks himself up, building his own confidence, assuring himself that Aziraphale feels the same, and all will be well. He could have happiness, he thinks, if he just makes a leap of faith and reveals his heart.
But he never does.
The potential risk - the high probability - that Aziraphale will reject him stays his hand. Afterwards, he always spends a while sulking to himself, resolving never to see the angel again. Sometimes, that resolve will last for several years, but always, always, he comes back to Aziraphale, seeking him out, needing to be close. Craving the light and warmth he gives off. And the cycle begins again.
But still, Crowley burns.
He will burn forever, he thinks, on and on until he explodes, like a star, and destroys himself. Maybe that’s what needs to happen, he thinks sometimes. Sometimes, he wishes for the explosion to put him out of his misery. But that idea is dismissed quickly. If he explodes, he’ll no longer be in Aziraphale’s orbit. Crowley can’t imagine anything worse.
So he will burn for all time, loving this angel with a holy fire that leaves his heart pure and beating only for Aziraphale, until one day, far in the future, he’ll simply die from love.
For now, he’ll just sit at this table with the object of his love, this star, watch him eat, and listen to him prattle about some small thing that makes him happy.
And Crowley will burn.