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Aziraphale was up to something. Crowley couldn't be sure what, but he was on the look out. Maybe a good thwarting would take his mind off things. After all, it was only a matter of time before the angel slipped up and revealed his secret to Crowley - after sharing almost everything for thousands of years, secrets were just too much work. Sighing, the demon settled for tormenting his plants and biding his time.
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Aziraphale was indeed up to something, specifically a little thwarting of his own. Having noticed Crowley's utterly foul mood, the angel had resolved to do something unexpected to cheer Crowley up. Of course, it was difficult to surprise someone you'd know for thousands of years, but Aziraphale was determined.
Crowley had unwittingly inspired him one day and The Plan (1) had been building ever since. They'd been walking through a CD store, Crowley misfiling albums and moving Parental Advisory stickers while Aziraphale methodically alphabetized sections, when The Song (2) had come on. It was a Jewel song and not one that Aziraphale would have expected Crowley to enjoy. Yet, out of the corner of his eye, the angel saw Crowley freeze in mid sticker peel and gaze, as humans were wont to do, toward the speaker suspended from the ceiling. The demon mastered his reaction quickly and pushed his sunglasses up his nose as he strode off toward the listening corner of the store. Aziraphale watched warily, expecting sudden chaos in the volume dials, and instead saw only a very sad looking demon curling up in one of the armchairs. Discretion being the better part of valor, the angel did not ask what was wrong but instead focused on the song. Oh-oh oh-oh, love is a flame neither timid nor tame, oozed the speakers. Take these stars from my crown, let the years fall down / Lay me out in firelight, let my skin feel the night / Fasten me to your side and say it'll be soon / You make me so crazy baby, I could swallow the moon.
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Finished menacing his last plant, Crowley strode commandingly out of the room and promptly collapsed. Although it didn't do to show weakness in front of the plants, the demon could no longer deny what he felt - that he was, well, lonely. That day in the CD store had been the capstone to what Crowley had been steadfastly denying for a long time. He was in love. With an angel. And as if that weren't bad enough, it had to be Aziraphale. Not, Crowley mused, that there were any other angels he was particularly likely to fall for. Still, the fact remained that he was inextricably infatuated and had been for … well, for a while and that part at least could go unexamined. And then that blessed song had come on, the one about love and crowns of stars and years passing and firelight and swallowing the moon and Who knew what else. Un-bloody-fair.
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Knocking timidly and than more assertively on Crowley's door, Aziraphale suppressed a last surge of uncertainty. This is The Right Thing, he told himself. You are an angel. Get a grip! Of course you're doing the right thing. After all, angels are made for love. And there was the word he'd been shying away from, unwilling to consider until Crowley and his strange reaction to that song had forced him to think about it. Folk, Aziraphale thought, was an acceptable form of human music and one of the few such produced in the last thousand years. Like poetry set to guitar, really.
The door opened.
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Crowley, startled into blinking, gaped at the angel in his doorway. "What are you wearing?"
Aziraphale looked down and considered his attire – argyle sweater, tan slacks, sensible loafers – and looked back at Crowley, obviously confused.
"Not your clothing. What's that?" Crowley indicated the angel's unusual headgear with a wave of his hand.
Aziraphale flinched. Hand waving had a way of becoming dangerous when the demon was agitated. "Ah, well, it's.…" Sighing, he did a little hand waving of his own and stepped into Crowley's apartment. The Song filled the little entry way as the door swung closed behind him.
It was a crown. The angel was wearing a crown, of stars (3) no less. Crowley reached up a wondering hand and touched one.
"Go on. They're for you."
The star warmed under Crowley's touch and he lifted it carefully off Aziraphale's head, peering wide-eyed over his sunglasses. He was too captivated even to notice when the angel silently removed the sunglasses. Glowing softly, the star was a comforting weight in his palm. "Ahh…."
Aziraphale smiled, that infuriating and endearing smug angel smile that meant he was about to say something childishly simple and yet wonderfully meaningful. "It's a star. Make a wish."
Take these stars from my crown, let the years fall down / Lay me out in firelight, let my skin feel the night / Fasten me to your side and say it'll be soon / You make me so crazy baby, I could swallow the moon.
---
There had not previously been a fireplace in Crowley's apartment, nor had there previously been a need for one. Similarly, the warm pile of blankets and pillows in the glow of the fire had also been arrivals of necessity. The side table had always been there; the simple glass bowl might have existed as long as the table or might not exist at all. And the stars resting in the bowl, reverently placed and still casting a faint light in counterpoint to the fire, knew nothing of time at all.
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1 - It was hardly a plan worthy of capital letters, but Aziraphale felt that the effect of surprising Crowley after so many predictable years merited the grammatical extravagance.
2 - Similarly, a song which produced such a surprising effect in Crowley had of necessity acquired capital letters and a bit of a monolithic figure in Aziraphale's mind.
3 – Originally made of tinsel with little metallic star shapes sticking out of it, the crown had undergone several transformations, including one unfortunate interlude as a Jell-O mold, before reaching its current incarnation of what appeared to be a circlet of delicate carved quartz stars lit somehow from within.