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The stars were shining beautifully up above in the mid-autumn sky. The leaves were turning, crisp red and muted oranges littered the cool ground.
Crowley lay amongst the collection of vast colors. Splayed lazily on his back, he seemed to blend into his surroundings.
Motionless, silent, still. All that could be heard was the gentle puffs of his breath and the crinkle of the leaves beneath his body.
Crowley found himself in an accepted routine; each night, he'd come to this spot, a niche stretch of forest in some quaint area of Tadfield. He'd watch the stars up above. He'd see the way they glimmered and the way they twinkled.
He liked to think that somewhere, somewhere up near the stars, Aziraphale was looking down on him too. Amongst the stars, he would be. What would he be doing? Crowley did not like to ponder.
It must be important. Important enough to leave him here. Important enough to leave him with the shattered hope of their union and love.
At first, Crowley was quite angry, angry at Aziraphale and at himself, at the Heavens and Hell. Honestly, Crowley was angry at the whole world.
When a demon is angry, one might imagine a reign of chaos and violence, but Crowley was never a malignant man. No matter how hard he had tried to be.
Aziraphale had shown him the goodness inside of him; Crowley knew it had always been there, he had just had a momentary (spanning several centuries) lapse of judgment in himself.
So, Crowley bottled the anger. He stuffed it deep in the back of his mind and busied himself to suppress its screams and claws.
In these moments, when he looked at the stars and the man he wished he knew for certain that occupied them, the screams got louder.
When all was quiet and Crowley could introspect, the torment was not solely filled with anger. There was sadness, so much so that if it were not for Crowley’s incredible will to keep it down, might drown him. And drown him it was. It was slowly killing him from the inside until his breath was coarse and he felt no motivation to rise from his place.
He felt hate and fear and love and sorrow.
All these emotions for the angel who was just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.
The shining specks freckled the sky.
In the horrible, lonely darkness, the stars still gave him light. Aziraphale, though impossibly far away, still gave him light. Crowley liked to think of the brightness that filtered down on him as whispers from his love. Small kisses that scattered his body.
And as he looked upon the stars and they looked back, just as enamored as he, silent tears escaped from their firm hold.
They rolled down his cheeks and formed pretty pools upon dead leaves.
Emotions are meant to be expressed in steady streams, for when they are not, they come forth in one confusing, eccentric burst. That is what happened to Crowley. Instead of slowly seeping through the cracks of his hard shell, they exploded. Everything that had been building up inside his supermundane body came spewing out.
Crowley let out a cruel cry. It was guttural and rough, one of a deeply wounded animal. It stretched throughout the trees and seemed to travel to even the Heavens themselves.
He broke out into sobs that rattled through his body. He drew his hands to his face in a feeble attempt to stop the display.
He longed for Aziraphale’s soft, gentle hands to soothe him. He longed to feel his presence by his side.
But he did not.
And even the stars seemed to shrink from view.
Somewhere up above, an angel knew of a demon’s pitiful cries. There was once a time when the angel would do whatever it took of him to comfort the forlorn creature, but he had a much more important duty now. He was changing things, helping people; how could he help if he squandered his time on a demon? Weren't many lives and souls more important than one that cried amongst fallen autumn leaves?
The answer was yes, yet the angel cared too deeply, loved too deeply, to simply do nothing at all.
But there was nothing he could do.
He attempted to reach down from the stars and touch the man. He tried with tremendous effort and fervor, but he could never quite get close enough.
From the ground, in between choked sobs, the demon stretched his hand up to the stars. He tried to capture them in his palms and keep them with him forever.
The angel tried to do the same.
Yet, as one would suspect, both of their efforts were futile.
An angel and a demon.
It was bound to end this way.
One of life and one of death.
Of two different worlds.
Of two different minds.
Of two different souls.
Though they may share one thing, one love, why must they kid themselves?
For how could such a thing ever end in a way other than this?