Work Text:
snake eyes
/ˈsneɪk ʌɪz/
Noun: INFORMAL•NORTH AMERICAN
a throw of two ones with a pair of dice.
- the worst possible result; a complete lack of success.
Act I.
The night sky possesses the sort of beauty that makes it easy to believe in God.
Aziraphale doesn’t mean that to imply a previous lack of belief in Her existence, or a wavering of faith in Her power - Or really, even a slight tremor of faith. When the simple thought crosses his mind, what he truly means to articulate is that the night sky is an ever-present reminder of how straightforward it is to have trust in God.
After all, whoever could design such magnificence and then so generously display it in an endless exhibit of incomparable pulchritude unquestionably deserved to take the helm in whatever other matters they saw fit.
Now, he has not been on this planet for very long - a couple thousand years or so, give or take - but he simply cannot understand the difficulty humans seem to have in maintaining belief in the Almighty. All one needs to do is gaze up and witness the breathtakingly irrefutable evidence, and any doubt that might exist will undeniably dissipate, blown away by the gentle evening breeze.
That plucky young shepherd-king, David, certainly understood when he wrote, “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands.” Of course, the monarch seemed to rather lose sight of the sky himself in later years, but that is neither here nor there.
The problem - And Aziraphale is rather confident in this - is that humans spend so little time looking up into the sky. They chose to occupy themselves in other ways, and many such ways involve a view of the dirt instead; too much time with necks bent, tilling the soil or digging graves instead of craning upwards to regard the glorious constellations and, subsequently, worship the Almighty in gratitude for them.
Even without having the more telescopic powers angelic eyesight is privy to, there is still plenty to see.
Whenever he has time in between his missions of subverting the wicked machinations orchestrated by demon-kind, it’s a simple matter to work in a quick flight to the southern fraction of the planet. The entire nocturnal canopy is, obviously, remarkable and far be it from Aziraphale to be so bold as to have a favourite division. Angels do not have favourites. How could they? As angels, they love everything, and love everything the same, no less. More than that, why would they? Anything crafted by the masterful hand of the Creator was perfect by virtue of its Designer. Something or someone could not be more perfect than another.
If Aziraphale were to choose a favourite division, though - in a complete hypothetical sense - he knows which one it would be.
There are many places to view it - Including space itself, but Aziraphale only rarely allows himself that privilege - and in that matter it truly is difficult to procure a theoretical favourite.
He might pop-in to one of the many islands scattering the seas and star-gaze from the beaches, allowing the lapping of the waves against the warm sand to provide a tender background symphony to the act.
Other times, he endeavours to make the journey to the southernmost landmass. It makes for a much harsher environment than the more tropical lands however, or even the desert climates Aziraphale most often finds his time spent in. There are powerful frigid winds and colossal glacial masses and air so dry that he always must bless away the resulting cracked lips. As in all Her fabrications, however, there is beauty, and none more so than when he looks up.
Oh, if the words to describe such a sight exist, the Almighty has certainly not created them yet, but Aziraphale finds himself inspired to try every time.
Brilliant, dazzling, sparkling clouds of epic proportions bathed in hues of reds, pinks and even purples dancing and twirling amongst a curtain of blazing, glittering stars.
The description continually falls short. The view never does.
When he's compelled by his duties to ignore the stars, Aziraphale feels...lacking. As if some part of his being has been misplaced or hidden amongst the heavens, a single piece of hay in an endless expanse of glimmering needles. When he turns his attention above, that internal cavity disappears. Often, as often as he can manage, he finds an icy cliffside and spends away the hours bathing in the starlight. Something truly transcendent exists in the sight; it fills the angel with beaming warmth and devotion, knowing that such care used to create the heavens was also used to create himself.
It strengthens Aziraphale’s already unshakable belief in God, in Her ineffable plan, and in the fact that if humans simply open their eyes to what lay so obviously in front of them, they would find the matter of faith, hope and love to be quite an easy one indeed.
Act II.
Whenever Aziraphale has time in between his missions of subverting the wicked machinations orchestrated by demon-kind - Well, he finds he rarely has much free time at all.
To begin with, “the wicked machinations orchestrated by demon-kind” seems a rather harsh description to go off of, at least for the sort of machinations that happen in his neck of the woods.
That could be due to the fact that it really was more their neck of the woods. And if he were forced to be very extremely technical about it, the machinations of wicked origin might also be, every so often, actually orchestrated by angel-kind.
Or one of them, anyway.
It was a decision that made retrospective sense and - Frankly, Aziraphale has spent too many years going back and forth with the fact that he agreed to begin with, so he certainly feels no urge to rehash it all now.
Besides, it also means that the heavenly plots orchestrated by angel-kind are, every so often, actually orchestrated by demon-kind.
Or one of them, anyway.
In the beginning stages of his arrangement with the demon known as Crowley, it actually provided Aziraphale with more free-time than not, and he would have been remiss if he hadn’t spent as much of it as could be managed gazing up at the stars. His fascination with the myriad of constellations, nebulae, galaxies and so forth had not dwindled as the years passed, instead continuing to burn as hot and bright as a type-O star.
(He once made that joke to Crowley. The demon had not laughed.)
But with increasing rapidity, Aziraphale finds the interludes of his mission on Earth to be occupied. There was so much to be done, after all: Food to eat and plays to see and books to read, and following the events of the apocalypse - or lack thereof - when the sky lightened on the first day of the rest of their lives, the angel realised that nothing about any of that had really changed.
There is still plenty of food to eat as Crowley sits next to him and imbibes on his alcohol of choice, and plays to see with Crowley dragged along in tow, and numerous books to read and then summarise to Crowley as the demon lounges on his couch, all nonchalantly serpentine and sprawled out on the leather.
He also finds that time passes so much quicker in those moments than in the entire culmination of his 6,000 years.
They had done many, many things together, not all of them good - In both the enjoyable sense and the moral sense - but they had never been star-gazing together. In fact, Crowley seemed to be apathetic towards the night sky. Anytime Aziraphale ventured to discuss astronomy with him or bring up the findings of humanity’s newest constellation discovery, the demon was reticent to engage. He wouldn’t even go to the planetarium with Aziraphale.
Obviously, he did not possess the same appreciation for the stars that Aziraphale had, but that didn’t mean such a regard couldn’t be fostered.
As such, the star-gazing they were to embark on was a surprise, a gift of sorts for Crowley…And for himself as well if he is to be honest - And he nearly always is. It has been simply too long since the last time Aziraphale took the time to search out his favourite nebulosity. In fact, he has been only once since humanity discovered it themselves - And if Aziraphale had been at the Cape of Good Hope with a small blessing in hand for Nicolas Louis de Lacaille, the astronomer stayed none the wiser.
They had named it since then: the Eta Carinae Nebula. Aziraphale knows she’ll be just as glorious.
The several bottles of 1945 Romanee-Conti he plans to bring along will certainly enhance things as well.
Crowley knows Aziraphale has plans for them - he nearly always has plans for them - but was purposely not informed of the content this time around. The angel is aware that he’d been intrigued, and perhaps even annoyed at the secrecy, as the demon usually prefers plenty of time to pretend to complain about whichever chosen activity.
Even when he saunters through the door wearing his usual black shades and sly smile, Aziraphale doesn’t reveal the plan. He’s tempted to draw it out. Force Crowley to wait in impatient restlessness as Aziraphale deigns to finish another chapter of the book he’s currently reading. Well, re-reading, but Ovid’s Metamorphoses (A first edition no less, with footnotes by Horace himself!) leaves plenty to go over.
That being said, Aziraphale had been subduing his own impatience simply waiting for Crowley, so when the demon does finally appear, the angel leaves the book open and waiting for his return, grabs him by the wrist and flies them both there.
The next time they open their eyes, they’re standing in an unknown carved out beach somewhere in Tasmania. It’s around this moment Aziraphale can no longer contain his excitement.
“Surprise!” He nearly squeals, a gesture akin to a particularly thrilled jazz hands automatically shooting out.
There is a blanket waiting behind them, soft and plush and likely larger than necessary, but Aziraphale didn’t want to deal with the truly tragic circumstance of sand in his waistcoat. He has a traditional picnic basket as well, packed tight with the wine and two thin-stemmed glasses - Even if Crowley usually tended towards the bottle.
For once, the stars above aren’t the first thing Aziraphale looks at. Instead, he stares at Crowley, eagerly awaiting the initial moment of cognizance. Crowley doesn’t even look up.
“A beach. At night.” His tone is nearly saccharine, and Aziraphale resists the very non-angelic urge to roll his eyes.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Angel.”
Aziraphale shoots him a look that he realises too late is likely lost in the dark, and instead lets an exasperated huff display his shallow indignation.
“It’s not about the beach, Crowley. It’s about-”
“What’s in the basket?”
Crowley wastes no time in crouching down, using a finger to gingerly lift up the edge of the basket’s cover, as if he’s expecting something to leap out at him. Upon recognizing the wine, Crowley’s look of apprehension transforms into a smile, wide and genuine and bright enough to dim his favourite nebula, Aziraphale is sure, although he doesn’t look up to check.
“A beach at night with wine. Now the vision is complete.” Before Aziraphale can even protest, Crowley is making himself comfortable on the blanket and reaching for a bottle.
“Were you planning on inviting the supernatural legions? Why’s it so huge?”
Aziraphale sniffs primly, unwilling to admit that the blanket is rather ridiculously large. He carefully settles down a few feet away from the demon.
“I don’t like getting sand in my clothes, you know this.”
Crowley laughs, and the only reason Aziraphale doesn’t huff again is because of how delightfully amused it sounds.
“Then why’d you choose a beach? We could have done this just as easily in the bookshop.”
With easy, practised movements, one of the glasses is being filled and handed off to Aziraphale, who just as automatically takes it.
“It’s not about the beach or the wine or the blanket, Crowley.” Aziraphale reveals after a sip of wine and an appreciative murmur of satisfaction at the taste. It had been nostalgia that had steered his hand in choosing that particular vino - Perhaps not nostalgia for the era itself, but rather, what it had produced.
“What is it about then, Angel?”
Aziraphale doesn’t need to look over to see the look on Crowley’s face, just hearing it is enough to imagine the raised eyebrow and teasing - or was it taunting? - grin. He looks over nonetheless. Teasing, definitely. As if he already knows the answer, but wants Aziraphale to say it anyway.
“Look up, Crowley.” He can’t help the ebullience that creeps back into his voice. “That’s what it’s about.”
Crowley looks up.
Aziraphale waits for the change, the subsequent shared elation, the new but forever-lasting love of the heavens and everything in it.
Nothing changes - Unless you count the smile slowly slipping off the demon’s face, which Aziraphale, frankly, does not want to.
“That’s nice.”
He says it plainly, as if Aziraphale had gifted him an ugly sweater vest. That’s not quite true. Aziraphale had given him a sweater vest before and, well, he certainly didn’t think it was ugly but if Crowley’s explosive reaction was anything to go by, their fashion senses tended to differ.
Somehow, his reaction now is worse.
That’s when Aziraphale looks up, to make sure that the Carina Nebula is still the same one he had fallen in love with all those millenniums ago.
The stars haven’t changed.
Well, they have, technically. They were constantly changing, always in flux - Something Aziraphale privately related to more than he would like to admit. But the glory, the absolute splendour, that has remained.
When he looks back at Crowley, however, it’s as if the demon doesn’t see any of that. His face is drawn, expressionless. Aziraphale has the urge to snatch his glasses off his face, if only to see if the demon is feeling anything at all.
Maybe he can’t feel. Maybe demons just simply did not have the capacity to experience the depth of an overwhelmingly positive emotion that such a sight inspires, whatever that emotion might be. Perhaps that was it. Demons couldn’t have feelings of faith or hope or love.
If Aziraphale hadn’t met Crowley, he might have believed that.
“Don’t you-Don’t you like it?”
The verb he chooses is painfully lacking; it’s certainly not what he intended to say. But there didn’t seem to be a point in asking the question, isn’t it the most magnificent thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on, when the answer seemed to be so obviously, resoundingly, no.
“Yeah.” Crowley’s voice is almost cruelly neutral. “I like it. It’s fine.”
Aziraphale has been on the planet long enough to know that fine was used by humans to describe a trip to the dentist or to conceal when something is actually devastatingly wrong. It would never be used to describe a bottle of 1945 Romanee-Conti and it certainly should never have been used in reference to the Eta Carinae Nebula.
He struggles against the wavering tone that threatens to appear.
“I can tell when you’re lying, Crowley.”
“I’m not lying.”
Crowley obviously hadn’t struggled against the aggressive tone he chose to employ.
“Really, aren’t we past pretending? I would rather you just tell me the truth.”
“I said it’s nice.”
“Nice is hardly the proper adjective-”
“I also said it’s fine.” He’s practically hissing now.
“Fine is even worse! Honestly, if you don’t like it, that’s one thing-”
“Drop it, Angel.”
“But if you can’t even look me in the eye and tell me what you really think-”
“I said drop it.” The words are snarled, flung violently at Aziraphale as if they were a weapon. Involuntarily, he flinches as if he had been hit.
Crowley’s teeth are bared and Aziraphale has the distant recollection of a serpent in a garden long ago.
Aziraphale’s first reaction is to fly away, quickly and wordlessly. He doesn’t know where he would go - Crowley would undoubtedly know to look at the bookshop first and well, Aziraphale doesn’t have many comfortable options beyond that.
But he stalls, hesitates at the thought of fleeing, of walking away from each other again. That wasn’t something that was supposed to happen anymore.
He can’t hide his wounded expression, however.
Crowley isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s staring down at the ground, clenching the bottle of wine so tightly that Aziraphale waits for it to shatter.
“Ang-Aziraphale, I didn’t mean to-” He sounds as if there’s something lodged in his throat, and it takes him a few moments before he can even finish the sentence.
“I’m sorry.”
It’s exactly the amount of time Aziraphale needs to realise the problem.
“Oh!” The exclamation is jubilant, and it causes Crowley to whip his head to the side with a confused stare, obviously not expecting the pleased tone that’s found its way into Aziraphale’s response.
“There’s no need to apologise, my dear, the fault is entirely mine. I thought a beach would be more enjoyable, but you’re quite correct. The stars take priority.”
Aziraphale is so caught up in his revelation, he misses Crowley’s flinch at the words.
“Come now. Antarctica has a different time zone so we really shouldn’t waste anymore time.”
“Antarctica? Angel, what are you-”
Aziraphale then does fly off, but Crowley is firmly in tow. When they set down, however, he doesn’t seem to be very pleased about it.
A few moments pass with only a heavy exhale on Crowley’s part, as if trying to control his temper. Cautiously, as if not to startle him, Aziraphale releases the hold he had maintained on his wrist.
“Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale’s slowly starting to recognise that it’s not a good sign when Crowley uses his actual name.
“I’m going to say this very calmly. What the fuck are we doing in Antarctica?”
And really, Aziraphale doesn’t know why Crowley sounds so upset about it. He went out of his way to shield them from the relentless elements. They can tell the whipping wind is the strongest in the world, but they can’t actually feel it, the same way they can’t feel the biting cold.
“Well, why do you think? Surely you can’t deny that this -” He thrusts a hand upwards “-Is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.”
“I can deny it quite easily. Watch me. Denied.”
It’s so similar to their regular interactions - snarky quips and whiplash witticisms - that it takes a moment for Aziraphale to perceive the bitterness that becomes apparent, like the aftertaste of the espresso Crowley tends towards in moments of stress.
“You didn’t even look.” Aziraphale’s own voice, he can tell now, is sour, like the freshly squeezed lemon he prefers whenever he finds himself with a cup of black tea.
“I’ve been on this planet for six thousand years. I know what the sky looks like.”
“But a sky like this? I don’t remember you ever commenting on how grand it is.”
“Then maybe it’s not really all that grand to begin with.”
“You’re lying!” Aziraphale insists again. He realises then that he forgot the wine on the beach and somehow that makes him feel even more defensive.
“Look up! Witness the glory of the Almighty’s creation. Doesn’t it just fill you with-”
It’s a miracle that Aziraphale remembers who he’s talking before the sentence can finish, but then, it must not be a very strong one, because Crowley takes a step forward, all menacing-like - as if Aziraphale could ever be frightened of him - and cranes his neck until barely a gap remains between their faces.
“Fill me with what, Angel?”
These words truly are hissed, seethed even, and despite his earlier belief, Aziraphale still feels something akin to a cold chill race down his spine. Perhaps some wind had gotten in.
“Faith.” Aziraphale whispers, and if blessed are the meek then he must be truly blessed indeed as he takes a step back, unable or unwilling to hide the hurt in his eyes but rather regretting his words all the same.
“I thought it might-”
“I don’t have faith, Angel.” And the pet name sounds like a curse. “Not in the Almighty. Not in the stars. Not in anything.”
It’s not difficult for Aziraphale to understand the true word that’s meant to be supplemented, but even if he didn’t, when Crowley disappears the next moment, leaving Aziraphale truly alone in the cold, just as he always used to be all those years ago, it makes it achingly clear. He can hear it as if they were spoken aloud.
Not in you.
Act III.
Aziraphale doesn’t keep track of the time that passes in the ice. It might have been many hours, but something deep and dreadful in his stomach tells him that it’s been days, weeks even since he was abandoned.
Of course, he is sheltered - Both by his own miracle and by a rather secluded cavern at the edge of a ravine he had stumbled across during his last visit, centuries ago. (He stands at the edge of the opening, looking for the usual comfort he can find from the night sky and, for once, finding it woefully lacking.) And, well, it’s not as if he can’t simply fly back to London, or anywhere else for that matter, but that’s really not the point.
The point is that Aziraphale had been excited to let Crowley in on the secret of the stars. To show him the beauty that the humans so often took for granted. To exhibit proof that if God had been so good and loving to provide such a gift, and completely free of charge at that, then what doubt could one possibly have about any of Her actions? The stars made it all so easy, that was the point.
But Crowley has obviously come to a different conclusion and a fevered mixture of sorrow and rage washes over Aziraphale, neither very angelic in nature.
Crowley is lying about the stars. He has to be. Aziraphale knows for a fact that there is no way he, demon though he is, could be so unmoved by the nebula. He just doesn’t want to admit it, because it might make him look bad. Or maybe it caused him to have a crisis of faith, so brilliant was his epiphany during the one quick glance above he had even bothered to give.
The demon is lying and there is no other option because if Crowley cannot love the most beautiful example of celestial being to ever exist, then what hope is there of him ever loving Aziraphale?
The thought is sudden and swift, and Aziraphale has no time to even acknowledge it because just as suddenly, there is Crowley once more, looking angry and resentful and-and exhausted, as if the many years of the past are catching up to him all at once.
He’s standing next to Aziraphale, but neither looks at the other.
Instead, Aziraphale clears his throat and tries to limit how accusatory he sounds when he asks, “So you finally decided to come back then?”
He can’t see it - Crowley is still, irritatingly, wearing his shades - but there’s nothing stopping Aziraphale from hearing the exasperated rolling of the eyes so present in the demon’s tone when he responds.
“It’s been fifteen minutes, Angel.”
Aziraphale straightens a little at that.
“Oh. I hadn’t realised.”
“Too busy star-gazing?”
Aziraphale’s response is tantalisingly close to taking on the same qualities of the Arctic wind, but there’s something in the tone of the question that gives him pause. It wasn’t mocking or spiteful. It sounds…sad. And still so tired.
“I suppose one of us should.” Is all he can manage.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley begins, and as if Pavlovian the angel deflates a little at the lack of nickname. “Why do you care so much what I think about the stars? I know you like it. My opinion of them doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t just like them, Crowley. I-I love them. They’re an example of the grace and-and benevolence of the Almighty. Another reason to have faith in it all.”
And that had always been the reason when Aziraphale questioned his own ardour for the heavens. Abruptly, it doesn’t feel like enough anymore.
He’s not sure from where his next words spout from. He just knows they sound almost…desperate.
“And they-they remind me of something that I can’t even remember. Like there’s a hollow point inside of me, aching for-I don’t know what for, for something, and yes, the ache’s not always there anymore, not really, but it used to be. It used to be there all the time. With no relief.”
The urge to shut his eyes against the ironic onslaught of memory, the memory of how gapingly vacant he used to feel, is overwhelming.
“How could an angel feel so empty?”
He turns to Crowley, as if he can provide the answer, but the reflection of a weak, cowardly angel in those dark glasses is its own response.
“And yet, when I looked up at the stars - No, when I looked up at these stars,” For the third time that night Aziraphale grabs Crowley by the wrist, this time yanking him the few steps outside of the cavern, complete exposure, the entire glittering midnight sky stretching endlessly above them.
“-I felt whole. Don’t you understand? If She created them, glorious and heavenly, then She couldn’t have possibly made a mistake in creating me.”
The silence that follows forces Aziraphale to choke on something he can’t describe.
“Angel-”
“Oh, you know what it must be?” Aziraphale barely even recognizes his own voice, forcefully twisted into a parody of his usual chipper tone.
“This spot isn’t good enough. Past the stratosphere is the only way to go. I should have done that in the first place. Well, we wouldn’t have been able to bring the wine, as you know, but it’ll be worth it once you see. Let’s go now-”
Aziraphale reaches forward to grasp Crowley’s wrist once more. Before he can even think to lift off, it’s being wrenched from his grasp.
“Stop it, Aziraphale. No more flying off. For either of us.”
Something inside Aziraphale cracks at that moment, and he slumps forward, unable to even stand on his own feet. He only avoids falling due to the strong grip Crowley suddenly maintains on his shoulders. Still, he lets his head slump forward, until it’s resting on a silky black lapel.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs against the fabric, barely audible. “Sorry for-” Weakly he motions around them, as if apologising for the continent of Antarctica. “-For all of this.”
Crowley says nothing and Aziraphale finds no fault in it.
“Let’s just go home. It hardly matters now.”
“Angel,” Aziraphale can feel the pressure on his shoulders tighten, as if the demon is trying to force himself to say something he really doesn’t want to. Aziraphale braces himself for whatever might come next: pity or an indirect rejection or something more he likely won’t be able to handle at the moment.
“I used to love the stars.”
The words are whispered with shame, as if it were some secret perversion. Aziraphale can’t help his reaction; he starts, head whipping up to stare at the demon still holding onto him, searching for a tell, a quirk of the lips to show this is an unusually cruel joke on Crowley’s part.
When his next words are spoken, they sound frantic.
“I don’t-I can’t remember all of it, but I’ve seen glimpses-in dreams or whenever, and they took a lot of it but not, not everything. I know what I did. What I created.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s own words are soft, reverent, as if speaking a prayer.
“Are you saying that you-You were the one that created these?” He doesn’t even bother to motion up. His arms were rather engaged besides, and Crowley’s head is hanging down, as if he’ll never look above again.
It’s answer enough.
“They’re-Well, they’re absolutely beautiful. Magnificent, even.”
Crowley’s hands drop from his shoulders and Aziraphale immediately feels the absence like an ache, as if taunting his revelation.
“I wouldn’t know. Not anymore.” His voice turns hard and he takes a step back, creating a gap between the two.
“What do you mean not anymore? What did they-” He hesitates to ask the question. Aziraphale knows what they did to Crowley, what was done to every former angel. The crude carving out of Her grace from every beaten chest, the scorching blaze administered to every pair of broken wings.
What other punishment was needed?
He intends to find out.
“What did they do to you?” He asks again, fully this time, and in the tone of voice that gives the false indication he’s going to be able to do something about it.
Crowley laughs sardonically, and removes his glasses, gripping them in his hand tight enough to crack the lenses. They’re full yellow, a blatant warning sign that Aziraphale can easily recognize and just as easily be distracted by. It’s not his fault. They’re just so…pretty.
“You know what they did.”
And he’s staring at him as if Aziraphale really does know the answer, despite the fact he so clearly doesn’t.
“I assure you I don’t.” He protests in a panicky sort of way. “Tell me. Please, Crowley. Maybe I can help.”
“Trust me, Angel, there’s nothing you can do about this.” One of his hands rises up and waves, casual, an informal movement that sort of circles the top part of his face. As if that explains anything.
“Your eyes?”
“The eyes of a serpent. They weren’t always mine.”
“Eyes of a serpent, what does that-”
Oh.
Dimly, strangely even, Aziraphale is reminded of a line from the novel he had left open on his desk.
But as always, you must wait to see the end of a person, and no one ought to be called blessed until he dies and his funeral is over.
“Crowley, you haven’t seen the-”
“No. Not for-Never since-Bad eyesight, snakes. And Dichromatic.”
“As in-”
They both seemed incapable of fully finished thoughts, as if the evolution was stuttering.
“Blues and greens, mostly, yeah. Well, entirely. Honestly, the whole 'eating dust' business isn't half as bad as the eyes.” Aziraphale can hear the struggle of nonchalance. It helps him pinpoint the exact moment Crowley loses the fight.
“It’s been so long -” His own shuddering breath cuts him off but Aziraphale can assume what comes next. So long since he’s seen the stars. So long since he’s seen his own creation. Time passes and the only thing Aziraphale can hear is the wind blowing past and Crowley’s raw exhales of air.
When Crowley next speaks, Aziraphale is reminded of himself all those years ago.
“I look up, Angel, and I see nothing.”
Empty.
Aziraphale doesn’t even remember grabbing Crowley’s wrist for the fourth time; he realises far later that he’s gripping his hands as if they were a tether to Earth. Somehow Aziraphale knows there’s no risk of either of them leaving now, but it’s reassuring to have the physical connection nonetheless.
There’s no need to direct Crowley to close his eyes. His head is hanging, weighed down by the confession. Aziraphale wants so badly to lift him up.
Later, he won’t even be able to remember the words that he chooses. Words have always fallen short in trying to describe the stars, but they're the only thing he can use, and so he tries. What he does eventually remember is that they’re fervent; intense and more sincere than anything Aziraphale has ever said in his entire existence, as if that same existence has been leading to this one moment. And all the while he’s pressing into Crowley as if that’s another language he can use to convey his meaning.
They’re sitting on the edge of the ravine, shoulders pressed together. Aziraphale is looking down, over the chasm, and it’s difficult not to imagine what falling would feel like. Crowley is looking up, with Aziraphale’s description still echoing, and the stars have never felt closer.
“Thank you for-” He doesn’t finish. And just like before, he doesn’t need to. Not when it comes to Aziraphale. He tries again anyway.
“Thank you for this.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for, my dear. Truly.”
“No, really. Thank you. I saw them again. It felt just like the first time.”
Aziraphale looks over and can see something glistening on the demon’s face. Crowley must notice, because he raises a hand and wipes it away rather viciously.
“The cold.” Is all he says.
“Of course.” Aziraphale allows. “Perhaps the wind.”
That unshakable faith and hope in the Heavens that Aziraphale was always so proud of is no longer there when he looks up. But he feels something like it when he looks to the side.
Act. IV
When Crowley is standing in front of him in the bookshop, Aziraphale notices his eyes have gone full yellow again. He never got around to telling the demon what he thought about the eyes he had been given as punishment. That they took his breath away, made him feel whole, just like the stars had.
He supposes now is not the time to say it. What with him leaving for Heaven and all.
When Crowley kisses him, Aziraphale is reminded of a supernova, the colossal explosion of a star. The final desperate surge of life before death.
It only cements his resolve. He understands humanity better now, perhaps better than he ever did before. There is such little time to waste looking up, not with so much to do.
Crowley flatly rebuffs the opportunity to see the stars again with his own eyes, instead of having to satisfy himself with Aziraphale’s measly words. He refuses to join Aziraphale as an angel, despite the angel in question expecting the demon to understand more than anyone else could.
His rejection is unable to dissuade Aziraphale. Not when the reason for accepting it in the first place is staring at him, wide-eyed, anguished. Fallen.
Aziraphale can feel himself on the precipice, can feel the wind rushing past him, can feel the yawning maw waiting below. He had been so close to stepping off, and there would have been no regret in the action, not with such company.
But he’s been given one final chance. A chance to change Heaven. To allow the first sinners the forgiveness they had been forsaken and pray, really truly pray, that they give it back in return. To give Crowley something worth looking up for.
Act V.
In Heaven, the Empyrean itself, Aziraphale has never been closer to the stars. He wastes endless time staring listlessly at them, waiting for the resurgence of faith that he had taken for granted on Earth, waiting for this excoriating void that has appeared once more inside of him to be satiated, even if just for a moment.
He supposes, in comparison to their creator, the stars were never that special after all.