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Windmill Theatre Dressing Room, 1941
The door clicked shut behind the zombies. Furfur had vanished leaving behind the faint scent of brimstone and the lingering tension in the aftermath of a very close call.
Aziraphale remained where he stood, his eyes fixed on Crowley, who was lounging on the sofa. The demon had just tossed his hat onto his lap, a motion that could have been taken for exasperation. If not for the way he was now looking at Aziraphale.
The demon had not yet spoken.
Aziraphale’s heart stuttered, caught somewhere between the thrill of his deception and the dread of what could have been.
Relief warred with anxiety, but both were drowned out by something else…a quiet, aching pull he hadn’t acknowledged. Until earlier this evening, when a certain demon with feet scorched from treading on sacred ground had gently handed him a bag of books in the smoking ruins of a church.
Crowley wasn’t saying a word, his long fingers drumming against the brim of his hat before stilling. His head tilted slightly, as though caught between two thoughts.
Aziraphale could feel Crowley's gaze from behind those dark lenses as though it carried heat. A searing thing, cutting through the aftershocks of the angel’s deception. It seemed to settle right where the photograph lay pressed against his forearm—a secret burning thing, pulsing against his skin. A stolen thing.
The angel’s heart still raced with the thrill of fooling Hell’s lackey with a simple flick of his wrist, a little sleight of hand. He should say something. He should tell Crowley the good news, that the evidence was safe, tucked snugly in his sleeve. He should ease Crowley’s mind, reassure him that his doom wasn’t sealed.
But Aziraphale couldn’t seem to speak.
Crowley, for all the world, looked like a man bracing himself for the end, and all he wanted to do, apparently, was look at Aziraphale .
The wail of an air raid siren shattered the quiet, its mournful scream slicing through the heavy air.
Aziraphale flinched. “Honestly, does it ever stop?” he muttered.
“S’war, angel,” Crowley replied, his voice low. The tension beneath his voice was like a wire pulled taut.
Aziraphale exhaled sharply, rubbing at his temple, feeling the corner of the photograph bite into his skin. “Yes, I’m aware, but it’s utterly relentless. The bombs keep falling, the sirens keep wailing, and I can’t seem to get a moment’s peace.” He gestured toward the ceiling. “Even with the bookshop impervious to bombs, the noise just…seeps in. It’s impossible to think .”
Crowley tilted his head slightly. “Could be worse,” he countered. “It is worse. For the humans.”
Aziraphale paused, his irritation faltering as he caught the faint edge in Crowley’s tone.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Aziraphale asked softly.
“Been below,” the demon replied.
“Below?”
“Not Hell,” Crowley clarified. “Just…below. Underground. With them. Huddled in the bomb shelters.”
Oh. Aziraphale hadn’t expected that.
Crowley glanced away, his glasses catching the light as he spoke. “‘S dark down there. Damp. Packed with too many people. They’re scared, angel. You can feel it, the way it hangs in the air, thick as smoke. Fear like that gets under your skin.”
Aziraphale swallowed, his own voice gentler when he finally asked, “And what were you doing down there?”
Crowley shrugged. “Same as anyone else. Sitting in the dark, waiting for the all-clear.” His lips curled into a faint smirk. “Kept the kids distracted, though. Told them stories. Silly ones, mostly. The kind that make ‘em laugh. Quiet, so their parents could get a minute to breathe.” He paused, then added, “Slipped in a rude joke or two, ‘course.”
Aziraphale felt an ache somewhere between his ribs, and suddenly, an image bloomed vividly in his mind. Crowley, seated on the cold, hard floor of a bomb shelter, his sunglasses still on even in the dark, his hat tipped just so. A ring of small, frightened faces gathered around him, hanging on his every word. He could almost hear Crowley’s voice, rich and theatrical, spinning some ridiculous tale to keep the little ones calm, their quiet giggles breaking through the heavy silence of the shelter.
It was just like the Ark, Aziraphale realized. He could still picture Crowley back then, with the same easy charm, long crimson curls tumbling over his shoulder, telling stories to the children to keep the fear at bay.
Some things never changed.
“Yes, well. It feels as though it’s been going on forever.” The air raid sirens keened on in the distance.
“Seems to me this war’s been decided for a while now,” Crowley said grimly, “Just a matter of time before they drag the losers off, kicking and screaming.”
Aziraphale frowned. “I thought you were an optimist.”
Crowley gave a soft snort. “Can only get you so far,” he muttered.
The siren blared on, filling the silence like a third presence in the room, pressing down on them.
Crowley let out a deep sigh and suddenly sat up straighter. “Come on then.”
Aziraphale blinked. “Come on where?”
“Somewhere quiet,” Crowley said, already rising to his feet. “Away from all this noise . It’s enough to drive anyone mad.”
The angel hesitated. “And where, precisely, do you propose we find quiet? The whole city is…” He trailed off, gesturing helplessly to the chaos outside.
“The stars,” Crowley said simply, the words falling from his lips as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world. He glanced at Aziraphale, his expression unreadable behind his dark glasses. “Stretch your wings. Get away from all this for a bit. No sound out there. ‘S peaceful.”
Aziraphale stared at him. There was something in the way Crowley said it—something too carefully casual, too deliberately light. A suggestion, yes, but also…a request. A plea wrapped in nonchalance.
“Come on, angel,” Crowley coaxed. “You’ve been cooped up down here too long. Your wings must be aching for a stretch. Mine certainly are.”
The siren wailed on, rising and falling in waves, filling the silence between them like a relentless tide.
“Nobody ever has to know,” Crowley murmured, his voice slipping into that familiar tone he’d used so many times before.
It was a sentence Aziraphale had heard countless times across the centuries—words murmured in theatres, whispered in corridors, half-laughed over glasses of wine. A temptation, but one that had always meant Trust me . And oh, Aziraphale did.
He brought his hands together, twisting the ring on his finger, and beneath the layers of his black suit jacket, he felt the faint pressure of the photograph against his arm. The edges had warmed against his skin. He should tell Crowley now. Should pull the photograph from his sleeve and assure him he wasn’t lost, not yet, not ever—But the siren really did make it difficult for him to think.
Crowley had not asked, Do you want to go?
He had implied, Will you come with me?
And Aziraphale, who so often said no to him, had felt braver tonight than he had in ages.
The angel nodded. “Alright. Just for a little while.”
Crowley turned toward the door. “‘Sides,” he said almost too quietly, “last chance for me to see them.” Whether he meant the stars or Aziraphale’s wings, the angel wasn’t sure.
“Crowley—” he began.
“No speeches, angel.” Crowley cut him off before he could say anything more. “I just…Let’s go, yeah? Before they catch up to me.”
Aziraphale swallowed down the words, something he was altogether too good at, and followed him out of the dressing room, caught up in the force of Crowley’s urgency, the photograph still pressing like a brand against his arm.
“How shall we get there?” Aziraphale asked as they stepped outside into the night, sirens far louder now.
“Miracle blockers only work within a certain radius,” Crowley explained. “We should be fine outside the building really. Best to do it in the Bentley—less chance of being seen.”
Crowley strode ahead and opened the passenger door of the Bentley, holding it for him. Aziraphale climbed in without a word, the faint scent of leather and polish filling his senses as Crowley shut the door behind him.
The demon slid into the driver’s seat, the sirens muffled slightly as he shut the door. In the confined space of the Bentley, their shoulders were closer than they might have been otherwise, and Aziraphale found himself acutely aware of the small distance between them.
“Crowley—” Aziraphale began again, his voice softer this time.
“Yeah, let me give a miracle a go,” Crowley interrupted, raising a hand slightly, as if testing the air, feeling for any resistance to pulling power from Hell now that they were well outside the building.
Aziraphale let out a quiet sigh. Ah, well. He was about to take a trip to the stars with the being who had made them, who had woven light into the darkness and shaped galaxies with those very same hands.
The photograph could wait. He could tell him later.
Crowley snapped his fingers.
The world fell away.
There was no rush of air, no weightless stomach-lurching sensation like falling—just a sudden, seamless shift from the dim confines of the Bentley to the infinite expanse of space.
Silence swallowed them whole. The war, the bombs, the sirens—it was all gone. The only sound was the absence of sound, vast and perfect. The earth hung far, far below them, a tiny fragile blue speck. Nebulae bloomed in the distance like cosmic flowers, their colors vivid and alive.
Somehow, Crowley had known Aziraphale wouldn’t want his jacket floating around him in space, and he’d had the foresight to leave both their coats and their hats in the Bentley. More surprising, however, was that the demon had left his glasses behind as well.
Aziraphale glanced at him, caught off guard by the sheer brightness of his amber eyes.
The angel made a quick decision before he could overthink it. He reached out, clasping Crowley’s hand. “To keep us from drifting apart,” he said hastily, as one corner of the photograph scraped against the fabric of his sleeve.
Crowley arched a brow but didn’t pull away. And then, unmistakably, Aziraphale felt the faintest pressure on his hand in return. “Sure, angel. Well, let’s not waste time.”
The sensation was immediate as Aziraphale let out his wings—relief, freedom, an unshackling of something that had been confined for much too long. He exhaled, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “Oh.”
When he looked back, Crowley was staring at him with a look that made his cheeks flush despite the cool void of space.
“I’d forgotten how liberating it feels,” Aziraphale admitted. “ Oh .”
The stars framed Crowley’s silhouette, but it was the sight of his wings—not the absence of oxygen—that completely stole Aziraphale’s breath.
On Earth, they had always appeared black, dark and inscrutable, as though they absorbed all light and gave nothing back. But here, adrift in the heart of a nebula amid clouds of cosmic dust, they were anything but.
The feathers shimmered with iridescent hues, shifting and dancing with every slight movement. Deep violet melted into indigo, smoky greys wove through midnight blues. Streaks of emerald and purple glowed like the birth of galaxies, as though Crowley’s wings had been dipped in starlight itself.
They weren’t black at all. They were a mirror of the cosmos, reflecting the infinite expanse around them.
Aziraphale’s breath caught. He had never seen Crowley’s wings in space. Not since…
A memory surfaced—of another time, another name. Before the Beginning, Crowley’s wings had been radiant, golden threads woven into the purest white, a reflection of the light he carried.
Now this iridescence…it wasn’t light poured into him by Heaven. No, this was Crowley himself. His essence, his defiance, his brilliance. His wings no longer belonged to Heaven’s rigid perfection; they belonged to the universe he had once helped create, to the stars he had scattered across the void.
“I didn’t know your wings did that,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice hushed in wonder.
“Did what?”
“The color,” Aziraphale gaped, his eyes wide, drinking in the sight.
Crowley frowned, then craned his neck, the movement causing his wings to shift.
“Mmh? Oh, would you look at that.”
“You mean, you didn’t know either?” Aziraphale asked incredulously.
“Haven’t exactly spent a lot of time admiring my wings, angel. Haven’t been in space for ages either.”
They moved in careful tandem, each stretching the long-neglected muscles, mindful not to entangle wings as they adjusted. It should have been awkward, but it somehow wasn’t, and neither seemed particularly inclined to let go of the other’s hand.
“I hadn’t realized how much I needed this,” Aziraphale murmured. “They’ve been so cramped. I suppose I haven’t had much opportunity lately.”
“You’ve been keeping them hidden too long, angel. Bad for the soul, keeping something like that locked away.”
Aziraphale gave him a small smile. “And you? When’s the last time you let yours out properly?”
Crowley shrugged. “It’s been a while,” he admitted. He stretched, arching his back, feathers rippling in the starlight. “Can’t exactly stroll around with these out back on Earth, can I? Not with soldiers shooting anything that flies.” He cast Aziraphale a sidelong glance, and smirked. “Not that I blame them. I am terrifying.”
“Actually, they’re rather stunning,” Aziraphale said before he could stop himself.
Crowley visibly started. “Ngk—erm.” He cleared his throat, folding his wings in slightly. “Yours aren’t half bad either.”
Aziraphale hummed, tilting his head. “I should think not. Where exactly are we?”
“Mm–Kepler-36, as the humans call it.”
“Ah,” Aziraphale said, nodding as if that meant something to him. He hesitated for a beat, then added, “And…what precisely does that entail?”
Crowley let out a soft, amused huff—the first real hint of a smile since before they had left the dressing room. “Tried something once,” he said, stretching his shimmering wings again. “A system where the planets weren’t locked in predictable little orbits. Something wilder, more untamed. Thought it might be beautiful.” His mouth twisted. “ They called it reckless. Wasteful. Ordered me to scrap it.”
Aziraphale frowned. “So how is it still here?”
Crowley’s lips quirked. “Never crossed it off my to-do list.”
Oh.
“That,” the demon said, nodding toward the celestial tangle, “was a proper sulk. Turned it into a gravitational nightmare just to see if they’d erase it.”
Aziraphale followed his gaze, taking in the delicate chaos. “But…they didn’t.”
Crowley shrugged. “Guess they thought it’d collapse on its own.”
Aziraphale’s thumb twitched, and all at once, he was struck by the urge to run it gently across the back of the demon’s. The thought alone was enough to send heat rising to his cheeks and he hoped wouldn’t show in the starlight.
The warm hand in his, with long slender fingers curled around his own, had already done so much that night. Had handed him a bag of books, had driven him through the blazing streets, had shaken his own hand in an agreement in a magic shop, had drawn on a mustache, been raised to “volunteer” as an assistant in a trick, had pulled a trigger in a moment of absolute trust…
And now, it simply rested in his, warm and steady, as if it belonged there.
“Y’know what’s mad about this place?” Crowley said, his voice gaining a rare, eager energy. “These two planets here are so close to each other that if you were standing on one, you’d see the other hanging in the sky, huge, like a second moon.” The hand not holding Aziraphale’s moved about as he spoke, shaping invisible planetary paths in the air. “‘Cept instead of just sitting there all polite, it comes barreling past every few weeks, close enough that its gravity tugs at the other planet’s atmosphere. Tides shifting, storms forming out of nowhere, entire landscapes changing just because of a near pass…”
Aziraphale barely heard a word Crowley was saying, his voice dissolving into a low, familiar hum as the angel’s eyes moved from the star system to Crowley’s profile, the sharp planes of his face and the way his hair floated weightlessly.
The light of the stars reflected in his golden eyes, and Aziraphale thought about how those same eyes had once belonged to a serpent, full of cunning and charm, and how they seemed to hold the entire universe within them. Crowley turned then and smiled—a soft, lopsided smile that made Aziraphale’s heart lurch. Here he was holding tight, so close to the one who set it alight.
Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long he had been smiling, but his face was starting to ache from it. He had forgotten what Crowley was like when he got like this—when he allowed himself to be swept up, spilling over with thoughts too eager to be contained. It was mesmerizing, watching the fire that had never gone out.
You are beautiful , he thought helplessly. He had always been. As an angel. After the Fall. Every moment since.
“No less beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured, unaware he had spoken aloud.
Crowley glanced back at him, a defiant curl bouncing in the absence of gravity. “What’s that, angel?”
But Aziraphale didn’t answer, and Crowley, too caught up in his explanation to notice Aziraphale’s distraction, kept talking animatedly. “See, it’s all interconnected. Everything here is connected in a way that humans can’t even begin to comprehend. There’s no such thing as nothing . S’all just—space, time, matter—all of it—spinning together in one big cosmic dance. It’s—” He cut himself off, pausing as he glanced back at Aziraphale. “You’re not even listening, are you?”
Aziraphale snapped out of his reverie, blinking rapidly. “Oh, no, I—I am! I’m listening.” But his voice faltered. How could he explain that he was thinking about the Starmaker without offending the demon before him?
Crowley raised an eyebrow, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “Well, go on then, angel. What was I saying?”
Aziraphale hesitated, caught between truth and evasion. “Something about a cosmic dance?”
Oh. And wouldn’t that be something? Dancing among the stars? Together?
Out here, they felt weightless—but, he imagined, Crowley didn’t weigh much on Earth either. Not with that long, lean frame of his. He pictured himself tugging gently on the hand in his, drawing Crowley towards himself, letting the space between them disappear. Would Crowley let him? Would he look surprised? Would his breath catch in that endearingly human way?
Aziraphale’s eyes dropped to Crowley’s mouth, moving swiftly as he spoke about the birth of a distant star cluster. The soft curve of his smile was so tantalizing. What would it be like to press his own mouth there, to kiss Crowley softly under the light of the nebulae he had once made?
Would the stars seem brighter in that moment? Or would they dim in comparison?
All at once, Aziraphale realized it was quiet again. Crowley had stopped speaking.
The demon’s mouth hung slightly open, eyes wide, fixed not on the stars, but on him once more.
“Angel, you’re uh. You’re glowing.”
Aziraphale blinked, realization settling over him like a slow tide. His wings were no longer their usual soft, feathered white. Light pooled in the hollows between each plume, pulsing gently, as though the feeling blooming in his chest had spilled outward. He swallowed, suddenly self-conscious.
“Oh my. Oh, I didn’t–”
Crowley seemed to draw a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something. Then he reached out.
“Angel…”
His fingers brushed against Aziraphale’s forearm—right over the hidden photograph beneath his sleeve. Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Crowley still had no idea it was there.
The demon slowly trailed his fingers down the length of Aziraphale’s arm until he reached his wrist. Then, gently, he took Aziraphale’s other hand, drawing their fingers together. Everything felt untethered and yet they were bound together.
Crowley sighed, as if whatever he was about to say had been trapped in his chest for too long. “There’s something I need to…”
He trailed off. Aziraphale felt the small space between them shrink by fractions. His eyes darted over Aziraphale’s face—searching, deciding—and dropping to the angel’s lips.
“Aziraphale, I—”
Aziraphale knew what was coming. He knew.
And he couldn’t let it happen. Not with the truth buried in his sleeve.
“Come back with me,” Aziraphale said, the words bursting from his lips in a breathless rush.
Crowley’s fingers twitched in his. “What?”
“To–to the shop,” Aziraphale clarified, voice unsteady. “I have an exquisite bottle of Bordeaux that I’ve been saving. I think—I think we’ve earned it after tonight, don’t you?”
Then something in those burning yellow eyes shuttered, the firebanked warmth cooling into something guarded.
“The shop,” Crowley echoed, his voice flat now. He straightened, his wings pulling back as if retreating in more ways than one. He let one of Aziraphale’s hands slip through his grip, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, alright. Wine it is.”
The photograph in the angel’s sleeve pressed against his arm like a brand, a reminder of why he had stopped this moment before it could bloom. Something black and white that held him back when all he wanted was to fall forward.
“Better put the wings away now,” Crowley murmured, “Don’t want to get feathers all over the interior.”
Aziraphale looked at him then, truly looked at him, at the refracting hues that shifted like oil in water across Crowley’s wings. And then he realized—Crowley was looking at him just the same.
As if this moment, this sliver of time beneath the stars, might be the only thing he could keep.
Simultaneously, they banished their wings back into the ether.
Yet they didn’t let go of each other’s hands as Crowley worked the miracle, shifting the universe beneath their feet. The stars blurred, fading like breath upon glass. The weight of gravity settled around them once more, and suddenly they were back on Earth.
Only when Crowley reached for the keys did their fingers finally slip apart.
Aziraphale pressed a hand absently to his own arm, feeling the photograph against his skin as if it might truly have burned a mark into him.
Yes, he thought. This was certainly a night to remember. And now a glass of wine was in order. Something strong. Something red.